I write to feel the wind in my hair,

Goddess knows it’s such a mess anyways

with its full frizz why-not-be “cool” dreads, but never quite really curly collective except for this piece and that piece and this piece under here.

I write so I can unjam my mind that’s like toddler traffic mixed-mode transportation with plenty of pauses to get out of the toy car and smell a flower, and have to say hi and bye a few times to anything with a new name I just learned.

I write so I’m not alone, whether with my creativity or lack of imagination boring me into the crevices of the rug on my floor and the yawning afternoons when I’m studying so much and it’s still not enough because I’ve got several more hoops to jump through because no one knows what the end goal really is, certainly not me, and I’m always trying to help people anyways.

I write so I can reach you, hold you, take you for a walk, breathe with you, face you, love you.

I write so my spirit can ascend while my mind is busy analyzing and second-guessing how and what to do to pass the time while I’m in pain or in procrastination or both, and I just need to reach out and make contact with mobilizing words that gets life flowing and unstuck.

I write so that I can find my music or because my music found me and I can’t get that new melody obsession out of my head because it wants to move inside of me and animate me.

I write because there is no me, there’s just the writing and the moving and the reaching and the holding and the desiring and the clearing.

I write to find you. To stick with you, to invent you, to rehabilitate you, to worship you, to trust you, to learn about you. I write because this is the way you like to show up when you are in the neighborhood and your best friend is only as distant as the knock on the next door and the warm entryway awaits, and the meal, and the offerings and the friendship and the feast.