Sometimes I write because I feel inspired, perhaps by a movie, a memory, or the string of expletives the driver next to me tossed my way.

Sometimes I write because it is the only way to get my thoughts in logical order.  I have trouble arranging concepts without a pen and paper.

Sometimes I write for no apparent reason at all.  It’s just an impulse—my way of coping.

And then there are days like today.  I write to live.

Mornings when I can’t sleep, but don’t want to get out of bed.

Mornings when I am not sure if the sun will make it over the horizon— fearful of the dark.

Eventually the sun does make it up, and I follow.    Only then to suddenly grow frantic and afraid of the Texas heat, the drought, the wildfires to the north that have swallowed 1400+ homes in Bastrop County, and I wish only again for the dark.

On these mornings, writing is more than a hobby or an inspiration.

Writing is breathing.

Because eventually we all have days when life is set ablaze, and smoke fills our lungs.  We become disoriented and begin suffocating. We need oxygen.

Words are my oxygen.

In grade school I learned something about how to STOP! DROP! And ROLL!

So I do stop.

I do drop.

And I roll…

… and roll…

… and roll …

I never learned when to stop rolling, or what to do when I got up.

On these days, I am not sure if writing is part of the getting up, or part of the rolling…


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