If I were being honest with myself, and whoever has the misfortune of reading these words, it does not much matter to me that they are written, and any care I have for them stems from the fact that writing, that sitting down to splash some words on a blank page, has become an inseparable part of my being. And that it matters to me whether I write or not, that it begins eating away at me if I do not do it, happens not because there is anything worth saying but because I wish to live a life I shall like to remember, and not the act of writing but a lack, an absence of it is the closest thing there is to know whether I have been using my time well. It is not in the writing itself; rather all the hours I spend thinking about having not done it because other matters were far too urgent or important or even mildly interesting that makes me feel some semblance of wholeness that makes it all worthwhile.
Put simply, it is when I am sitting on a mat in the grass with the woman I love, or in a room dancing with her, our faces lit by the ochre hues of the lamp, or wasting hours watching television on the floor, playing with our feet under a lightweight throw and giggling for hours that I feel alive, but knowing that the writing, my words, wait for me, that the work remains unwritten, is what turns my attention to this in the first place.
And when today, like yesterday, I did them in this order of inner precedence, no one in the world lost their sleep. And nothing changed. And nothing happened. And that was all; that was all indeed.