I am here.

I am a writer.

The kind that has yet to complete any piece for submission to the rest of the world. Nonetheless, I am a writer. I must write. I will write. I am writing.

Starting without a clear plan or path before me, I write.

I began thinking of all the reasons to write…surely having something of importance to say to the world should be the highest reason? Only for me, I am not completely sure that I have anything of great value or importance to say to the world. Pulling back from my limited perspective I see that ultimately our impact as individuals is miniscule in the scope of the universe and all known existence. Stardust they call it all. Stardust they call us. Stardust they call me. Perhaps I am.

So why to write then? What to write then?

Art is expression of the experience of living. We live on a planet with so many living things, yet the human is the only yet that longs to make their experiences known. Artists convey thought and feeling and story in their work that we might see their experience, relate to their experience, know that they experienced, know that they were.

I am an artist; I write. I write to make my experiences known. Maybe not so much that the others know of me, but that I might truly know myself. I do long to be known, but first, by me. Sometimes I write to understand my thoughts and my emotions. Sometimes I write to get things out. Sometimes I write to release the fist I hold; as if I have this wild creativity inside me that would otherwise flow out from me. A creativity that the daily routine has no need for, so I hold it in. I shut it down and hold it back until the calm quiet moments when the routine has been satiated and needs nothing from me now, and I can release my hold on this natural current of creative energy.

Out. It seems to want out. It isn’t enough to think the creative thoughts through. Offering these creative articulations a place inside me to flow in simulation is not enough. These articulations- this creative expression- It wants to be used, to be expressed, to be known. So, I am letting it out. One piece at a time. I expect that much of it will be less worth the time to read, and that some of it will leave a profound impact on its reader; I have no way of controlling which becomes which. My job is merely to create a space to sit periodically and release the fist and make the articulations known.

I am here.