Writing.

I woke up today wanting to write. 

Actually, no.

I went to bed wanting to write, but, my eyes too drowsy and my head too heavy, I ceded to sleep's call. 

Here I am now though, pen to paper - or finger to keyboard I should say

- yes, what times do we live in?

Is this bad?

What does this say about the future of writing? Of us?

What does this say about me? Here I am writing - or can I even say writing? - typing on a device forming words on a page stored who knows where, likely on some faraway “cloud’ in the planet’s ether?! 

What does it say that I type for convenience’s sake?

Food for thought.

Anyways. What matters is that I write. Even if what I am writing makes no sense. 

But, I do not write to make sense. 

I write because it is all I know, all I am familiar with. It is the only thing I know I cannot mess up.

At least this is true when I write for myself. 

I have no boundaries, no rules, no guidelines. 

Writing is an escape, a distraction. 

Words need not make sense. They make sense to me. 

All I need to do is keep writing. 

***

I read a poem today. It was one of those I could actually understand; at least its general sense.

But then again, words need not make sense.  

Still, I felt inspired by this particular poem.

Something churned in me. 

So, what did I do?

I wrote. 

***

It’s 12:03 am.

I am writing. 

Of course.

I turn to writing as a form of productivity as a form of escape, as a form of cleaning - or perhaps cleansing? 

It is surely a form of distraction. 

Which is it really? 

I do not know; what matters is that I am writing. 

***