On Writing ....

Writing is all around me. It is everything that I am. Everything that is a part of me. It is the truest expression of my soul.

It is ... a lover that I court, and on whose brow I hang fevered kisses and whose frowns give me torment. I live in his service, shackled being that I am. Yet, I can imagine no other existence.

A part from his side, I am nothing. Though he is at times harsh to me, I do not rebuke him. I live to please him, and despair only of not serving him with the full fire of my soul. My nightmares are of failing him, and of not being worthy to have a place by his side. This is a life that I cannot bear to stand, for his love defines me and without him, I have no legs to stand up on.

From our union there have been many children. These are the words that I write. I love them all because they were begat from him, an expression of my love for their father.

When they are insulted, ignored, or unappreciated, it cuts me like a knife. They are my blood, my sweat, and my tears. They hold my heart and my dreams inside them.

Like a mother hen, I am protective and defensive of them because they are my reason for being alive in the world.

Love of them and love of their father, Mr. Writing himself, is what brings me pleasure in this world, is what keeps me whole and convinces me to continue on.

I will protect them all with the blood of my soul. I will shelter and shield them and fight for them relentlessly, until the day that I forfeit the fight with my death.