I don’t have a profound reason for writing, any more than I have a profound reason for dreaming. It’s simply something my brain must do in order to maintain my health and sanity.
Resisting it is pointless; denying it, dangerous.
Sleep will come. Thoughts will come. Dreams (and words) will flow in their due time, releasing the knots of subconscious anxiety, and refreshing my gray cells, regardless of my temperament, acumen, core identity, or personal opinion on the matter.
But what happens during that time of writing or sleeping—that is the item of interest. That is the point of consideration—the fantastical element amidst the mundane.
During that time, I am but a thrall in the grip of fatigue and fantasy. It is a time when… Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts gather in my brain like condensation, forming tempest’d clouds of meaning.
In these moments, words begin to emerge on my computer screen as though sprung forth through an external agency. They coalesce into something resembling reflections of light on smooth glass, or wisps of smoky anxieties.
These moments are lucid dreams, unfurled at the demand of my spirit. They are my stories, my recollections, my bridge between minds.
And what of my body?
It moves, it moves, it moves!
My hands click over the keys and dance while my mind watches, detached in the pilot’s seat. I am a firefly in a jar.
Better still—I am the Mars Rover— an ungainly vehicle from which I can gather moments and distill them into data, thoughts, ideas, food for the collective consciousness.
Writing is where the paint meets the canvas—where the mind dreams in waking.
If there’s some deeper purpose or meaning to writing, perhaps it is to provide lanterns, lit for the journey of the mind.
Or else, I am a ringmaster, a carnival barker, a crafter of mazes through which my readers run.
Until, at last, they emerge safely perplexed and merrily ruffled on the other side of dreaming.