I Write Because . . .

Mouth Eye

I write because I might forget that a splash from the sidewalk plastered a long black string on my leg, because I might forget that it turned out to be a slimy, writhing worm that left a stinky residue on my fingers, because I might forget how I stuck my hand frantically into the first mud puddle I ran to, because I might forget that I didn’t care if anyone was looking, because I might forget how grateful I was to rub my wet, muddy hands through the soft, downy branches of a rosemary bush at the edge of someone’s yard, because I might forget the blissful fragrance of that miraculous plant, because I might forget to remember that a life well lived is like a word that finds itself in the company of other words that splash, collide, stink, disgust, delight, charm, collaborate, ingratiate, love and hate, anger and soothe, because I might forget that history will be told without me. I write because I am.

Photo Credit: themarysue.com

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2 Comments

Filed under Perspectives

2 responses to “I Write Because . . .

  1. Glenn Farr

    Wow, you write as well, or perhaps even better, than you tell anecdotes. 🙂

    Like

  2. Jean

    I’m not crazy about the picture..a little freaky. However, your mind is amazing and that little essay is pure poetry.

    Like

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