On writing

There are moments when I 'm absolutely certain that the only reason I write is to feel the pen against the page, to create something, to see words become manifest. Now I don't know that I have much to say, or anything to say for that matter, but the gentle scratching of my pen against the paper is comforting to my soul. I like to see the page filling up, feel the little bit of resistance as the ink bleeds into the paper. It feels good, feels like home, there is something in the ounce of resistance in that melody of scratching that is the action of my soul. There is always a bit of resistance: to routine, a bit of resistance to change, a bit of resistance to comfort, and a bit to discomfort. But once I've committed I gently bleed into everything and I can no longer imagine myself having not pushed into something. The same way I can no longer imagine the page blank after it has been filled with words. I can always cross them out, I can always change the words, but the page can never go back to being blank.