Why do we write?
I long to know the answer
But there is no clear answer
This is not an equation
It cannot be narrowed down to a fact, or even a theory
It is a question that will go unanswered for as long as humankind is around

Maybe the thoughts we think are too deep
So, like thinking out loud, we organize them into columns and sections, rereading them over and over until they make sense
Our eyes can make our minds, that see a jumble of symbols and drawings, see something more constructive
It is convenient

It is like water
How can something clear and invisible be seen and felt
Take a small cup of water from the vast and confusing ocean and it is easier to understand
Take a small sentence from our vast and confusing minds and it is easier to comprehend

I know not what I think
I know only what I feel

I know not how the earth spins
I know only that I’m here

And while I’m here in this life
I pray I may do things right

But I know not what is right
I know only what I feel

Her silent lips drew a soft breath, like the mellow sweeping of a robin’s wing, flowing wind swept to the west

Eyes, no longer dry
Thoughts, no longer clear
Only the slight roar of the sea in the distance, as dusk came nearer and more near

And so, beyond all that she once knew or had ever known, she became, willingly yet hesitantly, a mere dream

A quiet whistle in the wind
A thorn on a wilting rose
A worn pebble in a stream