(Source: commovente)

I am not a writer. 

These words will not flow eloquently

from my mind to the pen to the line to your hands to your mind and to your soul 

with the silky, buttery smoothness of the ribbon twirl, the sun’s movement, the babe’s smile. 

I am not a writer.

These ideas will not be perfectly translated to the page 

nor completely understood to every degree of meaning, inflection, and emotion

nor even coherently formed in my own mind.

I am not a writer.

These verses will not render emotion deep in the basement of your heart,

nor cast an impression on you that will forevermore hang as a veil altering all that is perceived,

I am not a writer.

No.

Here’s to those who write.

Here is to those whose twining letters become art –

art of life, art of feeling, art of truth;

whose pens draw lines of meaning, 

of beauty,

of soul.

Here is to those whose words have the power to create emotion,

to create change – change of thought, change of self, change of life.

Here is to those who tell of the world they see flowing by from the window of their 1987 BMW

and the people – ordinary people – rushing by in whom is found a certain perfection; 

who create a sad sort of happiness that flowers in the heart and tugs at the soul

Here is to those who describe life, explain life, create life. 

Here is the writers.

You can never simply decide to know something. Everything in life is learned, never decided. 

I have to go.

Go.

Go. 

Always go.

The darkness will catch me if I stop.

Go.

Go.

Go.

My thoughts will catch me if I stop.

I used to think that the more melancholy, unfanciful thoughts and perceptions were deeper, more intellectual. Anybody can spout “be happy”, “optimism is key.” These cliches seemed common, lacking depth, or, at least, lacking that aspect that makes one’s mind feel “this is truth.” 

But then I discovered (through experience, as these things always go) that the deepest, most truthful thing is happiness. 

Simply.

Happiness. Is. What. Makes. Existing. Living. 

It is a sad sort of happiness

        when the day comes to a close,

        and when the sky takes on its colorful hues.

I return home.

        I am riding - not driving - so from my window I may gaze at this town flowing by and

        admire the people in whom I suddenly find a certain perfection.

It is a sad sort of happiness 

        that flowers in my heart and tugs at my soul as I see

        these things, my home.