We write; and it is not with a blind eye that we see ourselves, nor with deaf ears that we hear the cries of our hearts and souls – and those of others whom we love: mother, father, sister, brother, cousins, aunts and uncles, friends and strangers. We write; and we catch a glimpse into the emotions we already know, the pains and sorrows, the joys and fathomless depths of those around us whose lives swirl like dervishes that only barely brush our cheeks, that only briefly caress and embrace us. We write; and a moment lasts forever, every microsecond of emotion held within our bellies to nourish our lives forever, to nourish others who might read – or to upset the stomachs of the guilty who might recognize, in this, their wrongdoing.
We write; and the world exists.
For, there may be billions, trillions of truths – one for every moment that exists with prismatic possibilities; but all are lost to the depths of darkness unless we capture, for a moment, this.
And so, I write, am spurred to write; and understand, in this fuzzy state of emotion brought on by salty beer and sadness at the loss of one so great as The Great Gatsby’s Fitzgerald, why it is that he drank and felt this to be the only state in which greatness might be achieved: For, it is hard, so often, to swallow the same truths that linger in our minds and memories as we recount for the world what it is we see. They are painful truths, even the most beautiful.
For, if we were living, now, we would not write; and if we did not write, we would, somehow, cease to be.
Oceans of Mine 