If I am alive, it is because of one thing. I write.
Too, true: the greasiness of daily living takes me on, and I slither about in status quos. Thinking or not, I write, and therefore am. I address the charge of sin and immorality with a letter to myself; I etch in digital canvas my wobbly vision for faith; I conjure invectives and staple them to history’s door. Without an invitation.
And it is, perhaps, true, that no one will hear, or listen, or see. Or if they do, it will be fast dismissed. That’s not really the point. Surely, if we are made for something, we know it because its absence would render us impotent. I escape the oppressively mundane, the catatonic Mondays, with letters strung like wild Christmas lights on a dilapidated house. When they form their quirky sentences, I, at last, can breathe.
Again: I do not know what ill I can reverse, or what that ill might be, if I cannot first describe it in pedantic essay or didactic verse. I need the flashing bulbs presaging the holidays, you see. It gives me peace of mind to know they are there; that they are part of the celebration; that Christmas would not be Christmas without them. And oh, if Christmas isn’t my favorite time of year!