writing is desperate communication. the sending out of a long-range signal in an alien environment, hopeful of contact, of understanding. I can string together pretty words, pluck at the discrepancies of language into tangles of images, and then pat myself on the back. But the only real satisfaction comes from others reading, others perusing the inner sanctums that these thoughts sprung from, and comprehending, even loving the meaning, the emotion behind those words and images, so that I am just a little bit less alone.
I am just a bit lighter, and a bit heavier after I write. When I write, it is a transferance. A nameless thing becomes a thing with many names. An emotion is funneled into ideas, ideas that attempt to inspire emotion. It is moved from the heart to the cerebellum, which then attempts to percolate back to the heart. Maybe writing is a circulation, a circulation freeing clogs of desire, liberating yearnings that can never be actualized.
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