Why I Write; Diving Within

Within the tangible frame of my physical being lies a vast, infinite space of wonder, disappointment, curiosity, sorrow and truth. Beyond bones, blue eyes, sunshine spotted skin that turns the colour of seared river trout when burned, is the depths of me. Me now. Little-Me, and a silent, quivering self who must release parts of my experiences in order to keep swimming. I do back strokes in circles as if I am in a glass jar full of murky water where memories fall to the bottom and can’t wash ashore; in this jar I am always hoping to roll in with the tide.�

When I land, all the words tumble onto the page, where, as if on an endless strand of gritty, warm, sand I can write for hours without distraction. I am on my own deserted island with my muse.

I think of writing when staring at the blossoming Birch trees that surround my home. I don’t know any other way to exist in this very complex and convoluted world.�

To write is my gift. It is not perfection; rather a reflection of the incongruencies of being.�

ROCK