“Letters I’ve written,
Never meaning to send.
Beauty I’d always missed
With these eyes before,
Just what the truth is
I can’t say anymore.” …
I can recall many letters
never meaning to send…
I have a creative love of writing, with an even more deep love of reading.
Writing and reading go together:
It is like a reflex, an act of the essence of living, for me…
Breathing in and breathing out.
(a.k.a. … ‘inhale, and exhale’)
Why hold one’s creative breath?
Writing is to capture and create a moment. Writing to convey a moment; of, thought, emotion, concern? Oh, YES!
Writing could be just a way to record ‘data’ for so many other people. Day to day, on the job, or in the classroom.
… Yes, just ‘data’. Info., stuff.
like this; Stuff:
#1… A ‘to-do’ list.
#2… A grocery shopping list.
#3… A lab report for school.
Functional writing… yep.
It’s all good.
Zzz… snooze. Could you agree?
However; or rather. Instead of?
CREATIVE, heart-felt writing?
Just for the shear guts of it…
Once again, cue the melody…
“Gazing at people,
Some hand in hand,
Just what I’m going through
They can’t understand.
… Some try to tell me
Thoughts they cannot defend,
Just what you want to be
You will be in the end,”…
I have a confession.
Most of all the letters I have written go somewhere, and certainly to someone.
And isn’t it so special to have that someone write to you in response? Yes.
Yet, it is with those letters I’ve written… never meaning to send. Hah.
They remain like vivid dreams to me. Pure guts of my very own expression. My very own mindful energy impulses of my deepest, most well-intended soulful gathering of confidential meanings.
Written all out, laid out in line and phrases… with absolutely not sending it to; anyone.
Like the best song written ever; yet, with no band to play it, nor an audience to ever hear ever a single note.
A letter written,
never meaning to send…
Even so, it is a letter.
A letter to someone, if not to ultimately be addressed only to that timid, polite, over-rationalized creative bubble machine of a character, deep within all writers. It is the blank pages to be written upon if only within our own hearts. And it is a feeling that is only known inside ourselves.
It is a release! It is a spark, a burning in the soul. Would it hurt more to not write it out? Maybe so. Yet these letters are rare to me. So rare on the inside of me. And, 9 times out of 10. About raw love. (Uncertain to express into the open / yet, so certain within.) And I know this is a percentage only. I have not written anywhere near 9 or 10 letters written, never meaning to send.
My heart is big, yet shy, selective inside.
So, 90% is it.
‘data’ of my only heart.
~ Eric ©2015 EWK
//Reference of my inspiration:
‘Nights in White Satin’
… “Letters I’ve written, never meaning to send.” …
The Moody Blues
‘Days of Future Passed’; 1967