Assignment 1: Why I Write
by Sarah Elisabeth
I sit here in pale solitude. In the comfort of tender loneliness, I write. My hands are cold, and the clouds out the window are swollen full with hope of rain. I write to the steamy staccato of coffee and keyboard. I write toward mountains, I write in twilight. I write in pale solitude.
I write for softness, for hushed tones and fragility. For meekness, and maidenhood, and the marvel of small joys. For mother’s hands, for lovers’ eyes, for downy, dusky sleep. Hush, hush. Softly, so softly, I write.
I write that I may speak; I write for eloquence, for truth. For all the thoughts that have crumpled and were lost before they reached my lips. For all the leaves so lofty, fallen and burnt to ashes. For silence. For suppression. I write that I may speak.
I write so that words may achieve the quintessence of their meaning. I write to claim their illusive epitomes and give a body to their souls. I write to realize that these eluding shadows belong to something real and of substance. I write to understand. For knowledge, for meaning, for truth. I write in affirmation. I write of human nature. Because I am, I write.
I write for the words that are ethereal, for disembodied fog. For clouded senses, un-cleared ‘til penned. For the single note struck, which, wavering in hallowed air of vast cathedrals, reaches that state of indefinite humming. I write because of singing. Because of cellos and adagios, because of David and his psalms. Because of Bach, I write.
I write because of the longing, because of the gray disquiet in my soul. Sleeping mist, low settling. For whist, for aching desire. Because I am never satisfied, I write.
I write for antiquity, to be woven in some bygone tapestry of thoughts and conversation, to be threaded one with concepts that shall never die. I write for that boundless loom. I write for posterity, I write for our history. I write for Eden, for Babel, for Calvary. I write for man, for we, the noble dust. For love and despairing grief. For delusions, for failings, for glorying in our devastating weakness. For growth. For decay. I write to remember. I write to live forever.
I write for what is common, I write for the unsung. For the mundane, for the dregs, for all that is small. I write within the everyday. I write for the real.
For August, I write, for citrus blooms, for childhood, for Maryland, for springtime. For pearls, monsoons, a yellow jacket, ivory keys and timeworn melodies. For worn-out shoes, a bicycle, for photographs, the moon. For blue eyes, for bow ties, for voices joined in song. I write for all they ever were, and all they mean to me.
I write to remember. I write to live forever.
