Aching

When something written makes you forget you were reading as you read it, a little light turns on to remind you that language in and of itself is beautiful.  I don't dare claim that I can do that with what I write.  But I will write about the happening.

Aching 

     I ache to write.  For the eloquent phrase scrawled on the sea of a page.  Not for the sake of eloquence; not to be applauded, or named, but for the sake of the words.  To touch the knowledge of beauty that is innately part of us, and so often unlearned.  To expand the glint in every child’s eye to a gleam, then a flash, and a blaze.  A glint still in everyone’s eye, though it may be hard to see.  Are we not all children after all?  To have words so simple, so clean that the ink on paper is lost and only their meanings meet our minds.  Sentences that hide in the dusk before the dawn.  The dawn of ideas filling the soul with the knowing of potential.  Incalculable potential.  Words that take no attention for themselves but are there only for truth to stand on.  Wordless words that do not mean but simply are; that do not match the absolute, but meet to lay it bare.  I ache to write such words but rob them with my strain.

  I imagine that writing should feel as the pouring of water from a glass.  Each drop so fluid with that last that only a clear stream flows.  The weight of it released, let down through thirsty leaves making full and empty the same: an empty glass, a fuller flower.  Such satisfaction rarely comes from pouring out; from reaching the bottom.  But only after the bottom is met do words leave ourselves more full.  Only as the candle burns can corners be brought light.  Dark corners we may fear to go until a candle comes.  I burn to write so purely but always ashes fall on my pen.

  Don’t think me hypocritical.  I see my toils coming short.  But what pours better than a waterfall?  And even they splash.  For the sake of the words I continue.  For the ache to write I go on.