LAUNCH EFFECT

this is why i write

I do not trust memory. Not mine and certainly not yours. A skeptic by nature and nurture, by necessity and need. I place my hand in every wound. And even then, my fingers, viscera slicked and warm with blood, I doubt.

This is why I write.

Because no matter how vivid and exact in detail these recalled moments may seem, they are like fish in a stream, hovering in the current just below the surface, so clearly visible as to be within reach, but they do not exist as they appear. Because through the shimmering surface, through the divide that runs between the now and then, the light bends and refracts and distorts and what is held as surety lies elsewhere in reality.

Whatever that may be.

This is why I write.

Because what is remembered is less important than the why these moments return. And my version is more truth than what may have actually occurred. If it occurred at all in reality.

Whatever that may be.

I write to tell my side of the story. To explain the why of choices made and the how of ending up here from way back there.

I write to raise the dead as travel companions on a journey through a life where dreams and fantasies and visions are indiscernible from and as real as any moment in reality. Whatever that may be.

I write to stand witness to my own madness and that of the world around me, far madder than I, in reality.

Whatever that may be.

This is why I write.

Because my head hurts. Because my heart aches. Because my chest is held in the searing, razor-taloned grip of a great predatory bird. And with tongue raptor-torn and riven, I am left mute.

This is why I write.

Because I ride the black wave that has swept away better men than I. Those who, caught in the vicious iron clamp jaws of the stalking, slithering beast lording these icy waters, were dragged into the abyss never to surface again.

This is why I write.

To drift on a sea of dreams, beyond the sight of land, beyond the charts and the maps, to hunt the deep, determined to surface creatures virgin to the light, monstrous and frightening yet wondrous and beautiful as they have risen from within me.

And I am left to wonder what is this strange fish? In reality. Whatever that is.

But I digress.

This is why I write.

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