Why write?

Why do I write?

Because they make me. The voices in the room that only I can here rain like a downpour in a summer’s storm upon my eardrums. They called me distracted, and wanted to hold me back. Whether it be in grade school or the hospital I would no doubt be stuck in after strangling the cat…if I listened. Long ago I found that writing helped get these voices out, trapped on paper. No longer in my mind, if I ever was having trouble removing them I would write I guess the beginning is the best place to start because that’s what the nuns told me. An exorcism for my grip of morality, and additionally sanity, would drive the voices the thoughts askew. I’m not the only one who’s heard noises though, Stravinsky was driven mad by a D flat note. He also ended up killing himself..I think. Or at least that's what their telling me.

Write do I?

I guess the beginning is the best places to start, because that’s what the nun would sing. I’ve never felt fully whole. Never understood why others think or act the way they do. I am most happy, when I am in a crowded room, sitting alone at the back observing the one’s around me. The instinct to create art is inherent in our genes. Create… More….but how do you create? Inspiration for me comes through the inconsequential world around, inside, was and will be. They call me a dreamer, but according to John Lennon I’m not the only one. Maybe one day I’ll be able to get shot by a fan that misunderstands me.

I do why?