I'm lacking inspiration,
a reason to convey an emotion
on this screen for others to read.
It is times like this that I wonder:
Why do I write?
Why do I fuel the bending of words
to fit into straight lines
that confiscate an imitation,
a mere shadow of my identity,
into meaningless phrases?
But it is for this exact point to which
I turn away and just write.
It's a momentary process to which
my writing is born and comes to life.
I morph it with a clean idea,
with fluidity and occasional rhyme,
with all the characters and spaces,
each word in conjunction
with the placement and style
of every stanza.
This is how I creatively express myself,
my thoughts and feelings,
to those who think they know me
and to those who do not even know
Like a random particle that springs to life
when the wind blows in a new direction,
this page can only come so close to me,
travel so far to you
and explode as radical concepts and ideas
to people in foreign lands.
I sit and write,
you sit and read,
but to what extent is this interaction?
It can manifest itself as a simple hello,
or translate bits and pieces of my existence and purpose
to a different language.
I can't locate the reason I type,
the reason I breathe,
the purpose I serve to live,
but I hope that a page,
of what I have written survives,
and is dissected in the future
to find and discover my passion
that infuses myself in these black keys.
Who cares about what is on the page
but rather the person
in which is reflected and refracted in their work.
What's more important is that connection,
that interaction which leaves
such a longing in our lives and intrigues us.
It is these human interactions,
which seem ultimately minuscule and invaluable,
that creates our desires.
And it all starts with the black keys,
represented as black characters,
on this page,