There is nothing I do better or with more joy than write, and yet I hate writing.
I do not like writing, but I love writing the lines that tell you I am loathe to compose a fanciful phrase in sequence with other turns of expression that bring light to what might have remained dark and ambiguous corner of my thinking.
My writing takes me in its embrace, kisses me on the lips, stabs me in the back, awards me headaches and worry, makes my blood hot and my limbs become electric and glow.
Music is sweeter and the kitchen noise keeps me nervous, the conversations are exciting adventures and nerve-shredding careens on the creakiest carnival rides.
Writing tells me to go away and never darken the door again with my formless oatmeal of being, but next time to bring more of what I had ready this most recent time at the keyboard.
It was good, writing says, it was nasty, you fucker, you asshole, see you next time when you're reticent, twitching and impatient to punch the keys, make things up, live without a mattress, nothing to lose and a universe at stake