I Don't Want to Write
I don't want to write but I want to write. I want the words to be written without expending any effort, without taking a moment to listen and pass on what I catch from the back of my mind. I want to be a writer but I don't want to write.
I don't want to write because I have too many ideas. Which one do I pick? What if none of them turn into anything good? How come I can never work out an ending to a story?
I want to write because I have so many ideas. I want to visit those places in my head I catch glimpses of. I want to sink into them, each one, be absorbed, see what I can learn from them.
I don't want to write because I don't have time. I would just be stealing scraps of moments on the train, in the evening. If I'm going to be a writer I should be able to devote as much time as I need to it. Otherwise I'm just dabbling.
I want to write because I need a stolen moment on the train that shields me, makes me step inward and outward at the same time, I need the balance, I need the refuge, I need quiet moments of... sanity? insanity? Something, anything imaginative.
I will write about the grey autumn sky and the grey cold train, hissing and screeching its way north through suburbia. I will write about the quick glimpses of the harbour and a sailboat heading out to sea, its jib billowing with the morning wind. I will write about the funny, strange, sad, and boring people on the train, their stiff expressions, waiting for their stations.
I will write.