The effort of writing is the maintenance of a little campfire.
Each day since early grade school, I have struggled to feed it with pine needles and brown leaves. To the best of my self-taught abilities, I give it my breath, space to grow.
Sometimes I find potent fuel in my wanderings, fallen bark or a piece of dry birch, and the walk back to this little personal space of uneasy potential typically feels very invigorating. Finding sustainable supplies makes one feel as though the hardships have passed, that everything from now on will be different, easier. Unfortunately, this is an illusion, brought on by obsessive smoke inhalation, nothing but toxic carbon dreams.
Once in the flames, my findings burn wild, bringing ecstasy of a creative sort. I feel a rush of belonging to a story, as though the compelling desire to bring words to life were innate, as though the tale is my origin.
The push of inspiration is short lived. Within hours, extreme heat has burned everything away, And again I find myself in front of a stubborn, slow burning mound of embers, refusing to blink out of existence and leave me to a peaceful life in the dark. Walking away has been attempted, yet in the distance, this little light tickles the corner of my eye until I give in and return. It cannot be ignored, even after years of abandonment, as though the core of the earth itself were its source.The skills we put trust in seem to curse us more than help, because having them make is responsible for using them. Should my little furnace be extinguished, there would be blame, for letting an ability, perhaps even a talent, wither to ashes in the wind.
Today, I put a handful of dry twigs in the fire.