What is writing? What does it mean to have a point of view, even more so, one that others look to and consider allowing it even to shape their own perceptions? What is a word? What weight, what influence does a mere combination of letters from the English alphabet actually have?
What is life without writing? What does it feel like to be without insight or introspection? Is shallowness simply self-consciousness? One must look past themselves to see deeper. I suppose we all mature with the mindset that the world revolves around us, but how little of the world do we truly know?!

People are embarrassing oblivious and unadmittedly shallow. I am aware of myself and my existence and my wants and my needs, but shouldn’t there be so much more? Awareness isn’t necessarily unconsciousness towards ones own self anyway. How does one reevaluate and refocus? How does anyone make sense of life- something SO MUCH bigger than themselves?
But how big is life anyway? Is it one’s own life, one’s reality, or is it truly the grand scheme of things? What does it matter to “live”? Why do we allow ourselves to be shaped by societal standards? I mean, after all, if all we have is the here and now why do we hold our breaths and bow our heads? Why aren’t we dancing every moment?! Why aren’t we screaming at the top of our lungs for joy at the very air filling them?!

ARE WE EVEN LIVING ANYMORE?!

If living were construction and we were all the architects of our own lives we would be contenting ourselves with mere framework. Some of us would be empty houses with pretty paint jobs but have nothing inside of us. Some would be trying so hard to fill themselves up with all the “meaningful” commodities of life that they end up cluttered and a complete mess. Some of us would end up hiding in houses with no windows, and it’s not as though we all should go out and live in glass homes, but we should realize that sometimes it can be nice to draw the curtains and let a little light shine into our lives.
Sometimes I find that we need to do a little “house cleaning”, empty our minds, brush off the dust, and even re-arrange some furniture- and writing, I believe, helps us to do just that. How else can we record and witness ourselves evolve? How else can we pick apart the differences between our yesterday’s and tomorrow’s without an account with which to compare ourselves?

Sometimes I wonder if it all really matters- like our lives are only brief glimpses of what living is truly about. What makes a lifetime of mere decades worth living? wealth? happiness? friends? love? Ah, love, love is not how all the painters paint it or the writers write it or the singers sing it. Love is a rare find, a gift given to those who will never deserve it because NO ONE deserves love- the real life, uncensored, unconditional, unalterable love that so rarely finds two people and binds them together, I mean.
I love HIM with every breath I take and thought I think and word I write. I love him with my heart and my hands and my heartbeats and even my heartaches. I love him with my actions and my inactions, in my happiness, and sadness, and even indifference. No, this is not obsession or infatuation or seduction; this is what I was born to do and be. I was made to mold exactly to him, my hand to fit perfectly in his, my voice to soothe him, and his presence to calm me. Any length of living would fail to be worth it without him in it.

So tell me… what is writing? Writing is living and living is writing one’s own story. Love is just the ink; it fills us in and leaves its mark. As long as we’re writing, we’re living and as long as we’re loving, we have a reason to live and something about which to write.