We Who Struggle

I feel so compelled to write tonight it feels almost magical. It has to do with the air (electric, almost), I think, but mostly the rain.

You make me feel this

.. this thing that one of the characters from the X-Files said (from the Philip Padgett ep I think: who has an uncanny knack for writing stories that translate to real-world murders)... Padgett's house was so stark: in it was a table with a typewriter on it, and a single chair. Nowhere to eat, keep food, sleep, etc. And that smugness, when asked: "I live in my head."

.. this thing Stephen King talks about, about what writing is, that writing is telepathy: through it you communicate your stories beyond time, beyond space, beyond death.

.. this peace with the one thing you think you can offer the world -- the tacit urgency of your words, turgid with meaning, yet simple, as simple as "And with that she noticed the one thing that made her want to stay sober for the rest of her life; the stranger had left the door unlocked," which is everything and anything depending on the context.

.. this feeling of vulnerability and invulnerability, both strongly possessing my body like a mist, a cloud. "Write or die," it says.

.. this amusement, of writing about writing when it is the real writing that matters, but surrendering myself to the impulse anyways.

.. this death in the hands of self: death of insecurities and want and secret loves felt for strangers, and of self itself -- this is just bubble wrap: who we are is what is unleashed when the trappings wither away.

.. and how you never really completely say what you want to say, not with all its meaning and underlying implications, and its gravity and its reality. That writers can only try. That words are only one such way. But no thanks, suicide, I will keep trying. Sometimes I think that is all there is about me: that if I stop writing I stop being who I am.