This is a kind of declaration or manifesto about writing, about it being a deep aspect of who I am. About choosing to write. (Do you choose? Perhaps only in the same sense as you choose whether to be yourself.) About the sense of untapped potential that could be unlocked. About confidence in its fulfilment.
Ink is blood
Ink is blood that courses through the arteries of the mind containing all colours within its darkness
Flowing in search of light and release to the rhythmic pulse of the heart
Words are shorthand for experience and imagination
A currency of vision and desire exchanged without loss
Words are the seed crystals that drop into the jar that contains the soul and expand into fractal mosaics
They are lights in the dark
Syllables that touch off recollection of other voices, that re-ignite un-memories in the inaccessible corners of the heart
When I was born I drank a cup of black ink and now I bleed words
My mind is full of words and photographs of unreality
And I can see there is a wall of water coming
I know it by the pressure in my ears
By the sound of the shore
By the harmonic vibration of every water molecule in every cell of my body in sympathetic echo
There is a wall of water coming and it will break in the mind
These tears that trace the outline of my face are only the first brimming over of the flood
The false breaking before the wave comes.
SpokenWord Paris 