Some
call self-expression an Art, a testament that some expressions of the self
cannot be explained by others who see, hear, or feel it. But to the self that
expresses it, it makes all the sense in the world.
A
refined way of this expression is found in the written word. Where one finds a
sense of self, embedded in the rules of language, its grammar and structure,
and is comfortable enough to constrain themselves more or even let loose the
leash and roam free in the space of a page. Out poets, story tellers and
makers, keeper of accounts, and creator of worlds are the ones who have found
their home in words. Music created, not from notes, but letters; stanzas in sentences.
Some search sounds that stand apart. Or find that rhythm, that call you hither,
to come in closer, to hear heart beating.
I have no courage to call myself one of them; one
who lives within the words. Yet the words flow forth from within me. So perhaps
my home is here, in ink filled pages, word filled tomes, and adventure filled
lives.
