I am sitting at the light coloured wooden kitchen table
round, small, like a student table should be
and my ukulele is sitting right beside me
she is blue, or he is blue, since they seem to be gender fluid.
hot herb water with a spark of lemon goes through my tongue
the taste is bitter but it heats up my organs
and soy sauce wants to be poured over brown rice at lunch
maybe I will prepare brown rice for lunch.
the breeze of cold, freezing snow peaks of North Vancouver pierce my face
the skin on my nose, turning red
it makes me feel like an animal running through high yellow bush at sunset.
why do I write? I just read an article for my poetry class
and the author challenged me to write about why I write
and I was like, oh. why do I write? that sounds like an amazing thing to type
and so I type it, snake ring on my finger, hands quick, brain synapses ready
I write because I feel the wind on my skin, and when I do, I have to tell it to someone. I have to communicate somehow that I am feeling joy, joy of existing. I have to tell someone that I am blushing, rushing, and smashing. blushing from shyness, rushing at class which makes my shoulders tense because university makes your shoulders tense, and smashing doors when I am angry at my prof laughing because a student’s grandpa “bombed the nazis in Köln and he did horrible things… depending on your perspective”, giggling.
I feel like so much and my skin feels it too and I wonder how other people keep it all inside of themselves. I paint, too, and I sing and I play watermelon (my ukulele) and those are all means of expression, but writing,
writing translates the unexplicable into feeling
and I think feeling is why we’re here
and more people should feel, and plus
I like the idea of people remembering fire and stones from our ancestor’s nightcamp because of a word I wrote.
I write because I love it
I write because it’s fun
I write because they tought me how to since I was 6 years old
and I focused 16 Earth turns on living by primarily that: writing, and reading
teachers tought me how to express myself through writing
so it makes sense that I do
I don’t feel forced to write
as much as I don’t feel forced to paint
and don’t worry, I will stop as soon as I find it boring
but for now,