Creed of a Writer

Different am I, one who is touched by the fire of ink and paper.

The world is divergent to my eyes, one moment at a time.

Many see it as a fever of the mind, a weakness to be excluded, or ignored.

“Oh you write,” They say with an awkward pause, “Why?”

But how do I explain the why?

What words do I choose to express my mind, body, and soul in a moment filled with willing ignorance?

“Tell me, why do you breathe?” Is my yearning response.

“Let me lift the surface of my mortal frame and have you listen to the synapses within my mind. Do you hear the song contained within those delicate neurons?”

I picture myself saying, “Please would you mind not flipping your epiglottis down over your trachea as you swallow that drink of water, you’re clearly missing the point of this discussion.”

Part of me hisses out, “Why can’t you stop your eyes from blinking all the time? See, you’re pupils are constricting in this light, please avoid embarrassing me with the use of involuntary muscle movement, you’re being weird.”

“Do you have to pump blood at this very minute?” I scream as their heartbeat interrupts our conversation.

This is why.

I see the world in a different way than you. Not because I’m shorter or taller than you. Not because I have contacts or that my eyes are green.

I experience living in a myriad of language, in a colorful wash of words. My senses do not stop at that beautiful sunset, or scenic byway. I do not move on with my day after that chance encounter with an utter stranger, or exchange of verbal communication.

Each interaction is a hundredfold of what could be for those contained within my fingertips. I see an endless amount of sunrises and sunsets, across numberless worlds.

For my mind is inhabited by another universe of stories. Each one presses upon every moment of my life, waiting to pour from the gray and white matter of my cerebrum.

I write, because I breathe.

My mind needs to tell stories, just as my body requires liquid to stay hydrated.

Words come to the heart and mind the same as blood cells leaving my marrow, to stop would mean an unnecessary ending.

I cannot stop.

The real trouble is finding a moment to write it all down.

-M.E. InkOwl