You think I don’t write about you. You couldn’t be more wrong. You are on my computer, on bits of paper, in scenes in my mind, and often in my dreams. I create and recreate you as my hero, my nemesis, the evil lord, and the savior of all the universe. You are my dream, my nightmare, my fantasy, the bane of my existence, and my muse. You will live forever in my writings. You are eternal.
I write long soliloquies to you; epic poems meant for no one else. I spend keyboard time typing monologues, things never to be read by anyone but me. I write long, truthful, insightful letters to you, mental meanderings of the hows and the whats and the whys of all that we experience and all that we are, honest and heartfelt and forever undelivered.
I write of you and I write to you and I write about you. You think I fill my hours with frippery and silliness when all the time I am composing – even while taking care of all those things that require care. I fill my hours with the haves and the needs and the musts and many times I let the sand pass through the hourglass without pressing pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. I deliver that which is needed while denying the necessities of my calling. I create in my head even while I should be creating with my fingers. I am and I am not.
I live to dance, to write, to bathe in the sun and revel in the sea. I create love and light and laughter from the beauty and goodness of the world around me. I delight in the brightness of the day, the miracle of the earth, the calmness of the night, and the enormity of the seas. I feel in colors and I recollect in sound. I bring the absolute amazingness of you to the banality of daily existence. I mentally hoard the beauty of each moment in your arms to savor during times of stress or strain, boredom or confusion, sadness or terror. You are my friend, my rock, my lover, and my savior. As trite and contrived as it may sound, you complete me.
You think I don’t write of you when all the time I do little else.