I'm Back Home

I’m beginning to realize I need writing to survive. In order to find meaning in this empty, worthless world. In order to understand its shapes, its fluttering wings of color, its rounding’s and bends and unceasing plateaus. I feel myself drifting, like the seashell the ocean adopts following the untethered child’s throw; shifting, moving in directions it has no say in going, yet being comfortable in my powerlessness, for I've lost the capacity to want to move myself. I need writing in order to feel safe in my own body. Without it, I am a mushroom unharvested; dreaming of freedom, yet forced to sit still, be quiet, and deepen my roots. Writing gives me the voice I can't articulate in any other facet. It serves me my power on a platter and demands that I see. I need and require it. It is my refuge and my sanctity. Writing is my home.