Mondays are just young Fridays

Observations, intuition, random thoughts on specific events, a mouthful of complications, a soul full of grief and goodness; each day I write.
I write every damn day.
It is what I do.
Lately I’ve been thinking more on what I write, or what I am doing as a writer, a poet, and a human being. I think it comes with the territory; how can you write what you are thinking, if you don’t acknowledge your thoughts?
Day by day, we all collect snippets of information (seemingly valuable at the time) that eventually clutter our thoughts. It is not knowledge, but something we know.
Trivia or truth, it matters not, eventually we lose track if we don’t keep track.
We often forget important things, beautiful things, and stuff that matters. Truth. We all do.
Sometimes some things go amiss unless we make a conscious point of remembering.
I choose to write it down.
Sometimes my daring perception is bang on the mark, other times it reads like unadulterated lunacy and, yes, my dyslexia gets involved and there are typos and errant punctuation and occasionally my participles dangle.
My words are out there for all to see and that is okay with me; I am human. The errors and misgivings are mine, I own them, and I am accountable for them.
Does it make a difference?
Will you read, tomorrow, what I write today?
Words have a purpose and are written for a reason. The written word is there to inform, to entertain, or to remind (how many times have you forgotten something at the grocery mart because you didn’t write it on the list?).
My words are an account of my journey on this planet, and I keep writing them, I keep changing them… I keep demanding of them.
I write so I won’t forget.
It’s not like I write because I am. It’s more: I write because I know who I am.
And I am here, every day.
I write every day.
I hope you’ll come back to read tomorrow.

05/06/2019                                          j.g.l.

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