So it is written

 

You may see us, crouching in the café corner, pen in hand, fixed gaze, eyes seemingly in nothing. Cobwebs could grow on our skulls, kingdoms could fall, traffic could cease, and humans could return to the very earth from whence they came, and we will continue to write. People will ponder, “what are you writing? What is he thinking? Are you a writer? Who are you writing for?’ For whom do you write? For whom do I write? I will tell you-

 

I write for the misfit, the boy who relished never being picked in gym so he could escape into the ceaseless realm of his mind, knowing secretly what riches lay ahead. I write for him. I write for the voiceless and the misshapen soul, who cant even look another person in the eye-too scared  to move or think out of turn by a society that offers so little back to those blessed with the ability to think beyond the box we are placed in from birth. For those who dismiss the pen and paper and pick up the paint and pad, spewing beauty like celestial bile wherever their desires take them dismissing the preconceptions of a society that gives so little back to those who live to create. I write for them.

 

I write for the ethereal, the formless, the shapeless masses of collective energy that freely move amongst us, sipping air from our lungs and watching from the sidelines as we now pilfer and spurn the world which they once held sacred. I write for the lost soul, the entity is exile, that wonderful soul too perverse to crash the party in heaven and far too sublime for the pits of hell. I write for the new soul, who operates the world the way a child operates a candy cane, leaping with zeal from one advent to another like some crazed young puppy as they bound from earth to earth, too caught up in mishap to think beyond the blink of a second. I write fro the old soul. The soul who has seen it all before. Who has beaten and BEEN beaten, tread far afield in to the shadows of fallen temples and ruined kingdoms. The soul that saw his brethren construct Rome, fashion aircrafts and now glides wistfully among us forever chasing a leaping shadow like the Peter pans of creation. I write for them.

 

I write for the vagrant. That should who was cursed by ill fortunes yet blessed with a silver tongue. Not enough to fill a cart, but always a bit of paper in hand. I write for the limbic people. The halfway persons who feel not out of time, but outside of realms.  Who look to the stars every night and hope that someone, some here in this crazed and oddball existence they have found themselves in speaks their language.

 

I write for that so called tough man. The guy who wears a mask for the fellas and secretly wants nothing more then to pick up a a canvas and a brush, and simply be. I write for the mothers, who give and crate and give back to the earth. The mothers of the world, who give themselves in daily toil and created us all.  I write for them. I write for the gone poets. I write not for the known poets, but for those whos masterwork lay overlooked on some forgotten shelf, who cant be found on amazon. Who’s family never even knew they wrote. Who steeped in humanity, left the world hoping they would one day be read to the world and inspire just one person. It is for them who I write.

 

I write for the weavers of the great tales. The epics and sagas and myths and fairy tales and tall tales and old stories and new stories and odysseys and sojourns and quests. For that grasping writer who knows that life can be damn hard, knows it can whip those ideals off your face, knows he feels out of place, knows there’s one thing in the fridge, but doesn’t care because goddammit-he has to get that perfect sentence down. Who looks at a leather bound journal and salivates like it’s a smorgasbord of untapped creative energy. Lastly, I write for that guy in the mirror. Who knows with the jerk of a wrist and the grasp of a quill you can change lives. Who sees the perfection of light and dark joy and laughter at every turn. Who knows the sun will always come out. Who dreams to find that place upon a God’s shelf. So my friend, in answer to your inquiry-more than any others-I write, you write, WE write-for ourselves.

 

So it is written.