On Writing

In the caverns of my soul, where spirits cavort with words and silence murmurs masterpieces as yet unheard, I find solace and excitement in the art of writing. It’s a tempestuous affair, a flame that consumes me, compelling the ink to flow from my pen as the blood does in my veins. I am bewitched by the mystery and the wonder of words!

Like a sorcerer of old, I strive to complete my alchemical mission. To transmute the essence of thought into tangible form on the page; each stroke of the pen must become an invocation of the muse, weaving threads of imagination into the tapestry of reality. I am but an instrument through which the whispers of inspiration find their grand expression.

When the world is shrouded in darkness, writing becomes my beacon. It’s a beam upon which I can cavort into unknown realms, where dreams and reality entwine in the tightest and warmest ‘cwts’* and find their haven.

Through the written word, I traverse the boundaries of time and space. I explore the depths of human emotion (mine at least) and the vastness of the universe. It’s a pilgrimage of the spirit, a journey through my mind palace.

In the realm of ink and page, I observe myself as creator and creation. I breathe life into characters who inhabit the crevices of my mind. They become my companions, my confidants, and my adversaries, their voices echoing in my thoughts long after I lay my pen to rest. Their stories, like rivers, flow ceaselessly, meandering through the landscapes of my imagination.

Writing is an act of revolution, a defiance of the mundane and the ordinary. A rebellion against the constraints of space, societal conventions and time. Through the written word, I can challenge the status quo, question the unquestionable, and explore the unexplored. I’m often fox-trotting with the forbidden, dancing with the dangerous, and smooching with the sublime.

Sometimes it’s also an act of surrender. It demands vulnerability, as I lay bare the truths of my reactions to whatever life has hurled at me to deny me confidence. So, my experience my fears, and my desires lie naked on the page. It strips away the mask I wear to face the world, revealing the raw essence of my humanness. It’s a communion with myself, a private and public dialogue between my consciousness and my unconsciousness.

In the pursuit of writing, I am both hunter and hunted, forever chasing the elusive muse.
She is a capricious mistress, teasing me with her tantalizing whispers, only to vanish when I reach out to her. Nevertheless, I persist, because I feel the ache of her absence very much more than the pain of her rejection. I am a slave to her call, a devotee of her enchantment which never fails to amuse.

My passion for writing, an intoxicating elixir that can leave me senselessly drunk and yearning to engage. It’s a furnace burning inside me, consuming my waking and dreaming thoughts. In the sanctum of my soul, I surrender to its embrace, because it’s there that I find my truest self, my most authentic voice. And so, I write, because it’s not a choice, but a compulsion, a hunger only satiated by the dancing of words on the page.

* “cwts” is a Welsh word (pronounced as ‘cwtch’.) It describes a special form of hug. Generally it lasts longer than a cursory hug and whilst intimate is not (necessarily) sexual. It conveys and invokes a deep feeling of sanctuary and safety as well as love, compassion and togetherness.