It's Been So Long Since I've Written

It’s been so long since I’ve written.

In fact, it may be difficult to even call me a writer.

So, with that being said, please bear with me.

For at this moment, when these specific words,

Whether they are being spoken or being read

In any language with any emphasis at any time,

Find some sort of passageway through your senses and

Enter your mind and ring throughout its walls,

These specific words were formed.

Whether they formed from nothing or existed for all of eternity,

Just waiting for this moment to exist

While I sat (or in fact right now, “sitting”)

At my kitchen table with my dog sitting beside me

Begging to eat my microwaved dinner at 11:55 pm

When it is 76 degrees inside and 86 degrees outside,

Humid enough where you think the atmosphere is just

Going to crack open and rain for days –

Just like I exactly feel sometimes at this time of night --

I am glad to be writing.

For this kitchen might as well be a chapel

This table an alter

My microwavable dinner the greatest gift from God

And my dog a disciple to share this lovely evening with.

I feel like when I write, no matter what it is.

I feel like I am living.

I must apologize again for it’s been so long since I’ve written.

Instead of stacking thoughts into my brain

Like a crowded attack

Worrying more about where is the room to put the next thing

Rather than worrying about what is already there,

I feel like I opened a window

Let some fresh air and new light in.

A change in pressure. A new perspective.

A few moments ago, I was sitting in my chair.

Calculating the amount of debt from college

The amount of hours and days and years I need to work

The number of tears of my depressed mother

And the blood alcohol content of my father

And the accelerating distance between my dreams and reality

And the fraction of my life spent compared to an average lifespan

And the fact that I just turned 20

And I don’t know what I have done, doing, and will do

With my one life and existence

And I add and add and add to calculate

What the net export of fear is compared

To the net import of…I honestly couldn’t tell you.

But as I sit in my chapel I have created with my dog

Who has now moved behind me since he found himself

Satisfied with my leftovers.

I am glad to just be writing. I don’t even care what it is.

It doesn’t matter who reads this. For this isn’t written

For anyone in particular.

I write to write.

I am sorry if that disappoints any readers

If this is a shitty ending to a sub-average story,

For I would compare writing to some other sensation

That would leave the average reader entertained.

But writing is just like nothing else in this world.

Whether it’s to express myself, to explain myself,

Or to once in a while just lower my heart rate

Or to keep my dog some company when he can’t sleep

On a hot summer night like this one.

It has been a long time since I have written.

But now that my dog is asleep,

I can too.

For the feeling I have at this moment cannot be expressed in words.

But, yes. I write to write. And that is why I have never felt better.