I write because

I’m supposed to finish that sentence with a statement that is sloganeered and strong; words to make you buy a t-shirt, join a campaign, dump a bucket of ice water over your head. I don’t write slogans.

I write because I prefer it to speaking.

Words are slippery buggers. Dichotomous and misleading. Storming along in endless prattle (even of a loved one) among all the other endless prattle, words become loathsome noise.

But on a page they are at rest. You can see all their brothers and sisters. Their context is your choice, and you can understand at your leisure. They are quiet, waiting to cooperate with you, empowering you to play with their meaning; mend it, bend it, roll it around on your tongue like food new to your palate.

And so I will push the mute words out of my keyboard and pencil one more day, still aspiring to what I long to say.

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