You get so caught up in life that you often lose track of what you are doing. It becomes habit. Life goes on in an unchanging monotony, swamping you with trivia, until it suddenly changes.
A writer hunts for truth, meaning and purpose among the debris of the days.
The truth is that in the depths of eternity all we have are the precious moments in which we live. That is where the best stories are to be gleaned. We defiantly carve them from thin air.
Our stories have the same substance, the same significance, as life. They will outlive us.
There is no ultimate purpose and everything will pass. That is why we write. It is the defiance that makes us special.
I read the page
I read the page behind the words
And breathe the air beneath the birds,
In which nothing lives,
Yet it holds all life.
Through this mad strife
I search the black between the stars
And touch the skin between the scars,
To find the story
That does not exist.
But in that blankness
Lies life’s gist
I hear the silence between the notes
And trawl the depths on which all floats.
For that alone is true
And contains the tale
On which we grew.
But there is nothing there