Sometimes

A Writer’s Dream

Is it wrong to wish to write for writing’s sake? Is it wrong to feel the need to write a disclaimer only I’ll ever see?

I sometimes think I was born to the wrong era, that before computers and watches knew your name, I might have been happy. I’d have sat in my room as others scampered about living their lives and smiled at the view beyond the window, written down what I saw without forethought or fear. The clouds would’ve drifted across cerulean fields like mythical beasts and birds would’ve tweeted the minutes. With a quill for a sword and a wooden chair for a colt, I’d have lived out my days as a warrior of words and others would’ve been happy I did. But it isn’t days of yore, and there’s no time for idealism in today’s world of exactitudes and uncompromising rapport. We are. We will. We do as we’re told.

I sometimes wish the curtains to close and never open. Here wrapped in my private night, I’ll live in peace with these hundreds of thousands of words scattered all around; most long forgotten and stashed away in burrows of rabbited nonsenses. The songs I love will play in endless loops through ears with no wish to hear the spouted obscenities and harsh realities — or so they claim — of this, that and the other. Darkness will fold around me like a lover’s kiss, all-encompassing, and I won’t even know if I’m dead, nor care. But then the words will come, white on black, and I’ll feel more alive than ever.

Sometimes a voice calls from deep within that I presume my own but still doubt. This — let’s call it soul — knows my name, my home, my life, wife and circumstance, but even this supposed virgin self is dubious to my needs. What are my needs?

I have absolutely no wish for anyone to read what I write. I have absolutely no desire to be famous. If people happen upon these reams of written words and enjoy them, feel them, I’ll smile and thank them, and expect no thanks in return. If a child picks up one of my books and their eyes light up with wonder, I shouldn’t care if their parent commands them to put it back — not if the spark’s already lit. If? Such a little word. Such a pertinent package. But the cold hard reality, is something has to pay for a coffin and good intentions won’t.

Sometimes I think I’m free. Sometimes, but not often.

Thank you for reading

Richard

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44 thoughts on “Sometimes”

  1. The entirety educated me about a feel of completeness that I often miss on catching, a completion that I let slip in the lines of more and enough. I truly love this.

  2. You made me fall in love with your words all over again. I wish to think you are writing only for writing’s and your sake. You certainly aren’t writing for me as I would selfishly demand more and more of your thousands of words. And never forget it was you and your words that convinced me to actually write a poem of my own. Miss you, R. Always, D(ana) — in case you have forgotten.

      1. Well, I know how fluid your memory can be. Smiles. I am doing well. Better than I ever expected. I am still very grateful for all you did for me.

  3. I really like what you write. And I also get the need to sometimes just write for yourself. I have half a dozen journals of mine where I wrote just because I wanted to. For me.

  4. Wow wow wow that was powerful. Your silence has made a power-packed presentation of your thoughts as always I loved it! Hooray for you! I will always be inspired by you my friend! So happy to see this! 🙂

  5. so this is coming from a person who hasn’t written for a year- somewhere i felt trapped in my own doubts and that was partly the reason why i stopped writing..in that way i relate to this piece of writing. however, let’s never lose hope and keep hoping for freedom and liberation in writing in its true sense, ’cause that’s what writing stands for!
    #freedom

  6. Mr. Richard, I see you vanished for a bit too (years? … my bit anyway). As always, I love this piece. I agree about this era … but if we’re to do as we’re told, then I say WRITE RICHARD! ❤ Very good to see you. xoxo Kimba

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