On The Purpose of Writing
Writing is not something that I wish to do. It is something that I have to do. It is something stronger than anything that I am, or anything I may think I am. Every sentence, every word, every coma, every paragraph, is painfully extracted from the most profound confines of my being, and is ripped from my bosom by a force greater than myself, and comes from a place that I have never visited and it bites at my soul, and tears at my entrails, and it seems to bring me, as close as it will ever be possible for a man to the bone crushing pain of childbirth.
I am too old for money to matter, but I am not too old for life to matter, and the things, people and coincidences that make life what it is, an extraordinarily complex and beautiful mess. Time therefore, has become my most precious commodity. I care not for honours or for adulation, these are not the driving forces that chain me to this task and the only thing I wish to do at this stage in my life, is to write, to write with the ferocity and the fury of the condemned, and to let the frenzied splendor of existence pour from me, and be inhabited by its inherent wrath, and its’ omnipotent magnificence
I have entered into this world with nothing and shall leave it with nothing, and that is the way it is, and the way it has always been, and if a word, a thought, or a phrase of mine touches someone’s heart, in a hundred or a hundred thousand years, then and only then, will my work have served its’ purpose. Our empty blinking screens and blank sheets of paper, are like the prehistoric cave walls of our long gone and distant ancestors, and spaces that need to be filled and scratched with the stains of our existence and to be a reminder of what was, and what was not, and what is yet to be.
I am too old for money to matter, but I am not too old for life to matter, and the things, people and coincidences that make life what it is, an extraordinarily complex and beautiful mess. Time therefore, has become my most precious commodity. I care not for honours or for adulation, these are not the driving forces that chain me to this task and the only thing I wish to do at this stage in my life, is to write, to write with the ferocity and the fury of the condemned, and to let the frenzied splendor of existence pour from me, and be inhabited by its inherent wrath, and its’ omnipotent magnificence
I have entered into this world with nothing and shall leave it with nothing, and that is the way it is, and the way it has always been, and if a word, a thought, or a phrase of mine touches someone’s heart, in a hundred or a hundred thousand years, then and only then, will my work have served its’ purpose. Our empty blinking screens and blank sheets of paper, are like the prehistoric cave walls of our long gone and distant ancestors, and spaces that need to be filled and scratched with the stains of our existence and to be a reminder of what was, and what was not, and what is yet to be.
