Two weeks have passed since I last posted anything. Two weeks since I wrote more than a thought or fragment of an idea. All the more through this time recovering, it has become clear that writing is ineffably tied to living for me. Not just as a source of inspiration, but as more. As the paint on my brush.
Almost as an artist of old (though I do not call myself an artist), I must put my hand to the pestle and grind my own pigments and mash them with oil before the painting can begin. Life must be lived in order that I may write. I guess that is to say that to write is life.
In there somewhere is an implicit statement about what I believe to be life. Living, for me, is experiential. Each moment of life is a new experience, familiar or not. Life is movement. Anything living moves.
That is not to say I endorse a movement for the sake of movement, calling it life wherein only a boulder crashes down a mountain face. No, life is a purposeful movement. A moving in love. Life is a falling in love with every moment. Whether that be a person and their quirks or a Cardinal singing outside your window is irrelevant. For me, an intense curiosity for all things drives me to live and to write, to discover the world in tones harmonic to my soul, even when I must learn a new note to match an unknown chord.