Blogapalooz-Hour: Writing, you are the love of my life



Dear Writing,

We've been together so, so long now. Sometimes I try to imagine life without you, but it's beyond me. I try my damnedest to remember the times before we met, before keyboards and word processors, laser printers, dot matrix printers. Before IBM Selectric typewriters, before pen and notebook, or even pencil and looseleaf.

But in my mind, there is no time I remember before you bewitched my hands into using those things. There is no time when words were not. You've always been here, with me, courting me, chasing me, befuddling and confounding me. You are the incomprehensible majesty of my perception, galactic central point, the dark matter from which the Big Bang sprang. I am in your orbit, forever.

There've been so many times I've been bad to you, nonchalant, dismissive. Decades during which I ignored you, treated you as nothing more than a queer mystery. Years during which I held you at arm's length, writing naught but poor marketing copy and direct mail vehicles. I felt your anger then, your resentment at my conceited behavior, and it frightened me. You wanted more, you needed more, and I was scared.

All I'd ever wanted was to do right by you, show the world that together we are whole and sublime. Deep down, though, anxious fires burned within my soul. What if the world couldn't see, didn't care, wanted naught but BuzzFeed and kitschy tweetings?

The fights we would have! Seemingly endless rows, I'd bellow that you were a curse, an untreatable case of lupus driving me towards a destiny of oblivion. You would, in your thin voice, whisper truths that shook my core to violent reactions. And I would leave, driving fast and far, though I knew escape was never possible.

But dearest, don't forget how I always came back, always apologized, always begged to return to your embrace. And no matter how many times I spurned you, you pulled me in close and lavished your devotion upon me. Through your eyes, I could see none of those anxieties mattered. That the world was the world, and would behave as such. That the only audience that mattered was us, together. That so long as we were true and earnest, ambition would wait.

I remember early days, when we were barely introduced. Late at night, in my childhood bed, reading Snowshoe Trek to Otter Riverimagining the stories I would tell, clouds of words and premises surrounding me. Even then, it was already too late -- I was yours.

Let me be yours forever. It's you, writing. It's always been you.


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