I write because if I don't I will explode.
It's not my words that will change the world, instead it's the untanglying of knots that the writing down of my world into words that helps me to process and navigate it.
It's that very process - and the weaving, in words, of my own personal tapestry - that imbues this life-thing with meaning. Because without the thinking about and grappling with of my journey - which right now is rather testing - my life would be sapped of its meaning.
I guess it goes all the way back to those Greek words, often ascribed to Socrates, inscribed so long ago in the forecourt of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi: Know thyself. Those words - in my eyes one of the most profund of expressions - is about humankind's ancient quest for self knowledge.
I type out streams, rivers of words every day because by the constant examination and scrutiny of my own life, I thereby imbibe my existence with meaning. Because without that meaning I would most likely be tempted to hurl myself nto the ocean from a cliff. If, of course, I wasn't as scared of heights and as squeamish as I am.
I'm also aware that it's only in solitude and silence that my mind is truly alert and connected to the universal web, that then my thinking and vision is razor-sharp and - ultimately - free of ego.
It also isn't easy; even here as I'm primed with coffee at the closest joint I could escape to from today's dreariness of work I struggle with and trip over words, and my concentration strugggles to perch for longer than a few seconds on the crumbs scattered across my mind. And over my heart.
The sun through the smoky-glassed atrium high above me is roasting my neck and tempts me with even another excuse to chuck this putting-down-words-thing in.
The other excuse is that my personal writing, especially here on this platform, has become so sparse that I might as well just chuck it in altogether, so as to cowardly take this constant pressure off of myself.
Then another excuse, perhaps the toughest one of them all - if it catches me in an ungaurded moment, like now - is the who-gives-a-fuck-anyway-because-your-words-are-meaningless one, which - most of the time - is the most easy one of them all to succumb to.
Which brings me a full circle: I write because if I don't I will explode from the God-awful pressure from within. It's the pressure of the un-examined life; it's the pressure of remaining (out of choice of course) one of the living-dead (i.e. one of the majority)... i.e. a life unthinkingly spent accumulating wealth and material possessions so as to fill the void. That's mostly a life of not giving a fuck about anything or anyone but yourself.
The summer is in full and heavy swing: It's a perfect summer's day, especially for those with luminous skins from the northern hemisphere where snowstorms are currently even shutting down the likes of Facebook and Instagram.
If given the choice I'd much rather be there; I'm counting down to the Cape winter, which I will welcome with both arms wide open.
Outside the heat is so heavy, crushing my clothes and hair against my body and causing me to squint my eyes and to seek the shadows cast by walls so that I can have as little exposure to the scorching light as possible as I spider along them to get to anywhere that I absolutely need to.
The moisture imediately evaporates from my eyeballs after I blink to try and save then from the summer, from the day, and from the abundance of bright light.
As I write, as the words plop out like ill-assorted pebbles, I tend towards weightlessness. And freedom. Only, then, for the entire process to begin again when I push 'send' on my keyboard and then close the application while foolishly thinking (like I do every day) that my 'work' is done.