writing wisp

I want to write for myself, out of my own weirdness and onto my own page.
I want to write something that other people will read, will read and feel seen, feel buoyed.

I want to be a hermit in a cottage by the sea lost in a flow of words and water.
I want to paint into being a community of writer witches with messy hair and dire thoughts.

I want escape, other planets, distant futures, magic.
I want to be always aware, to never look away, to stay with the people who are also looking.

I want a fever of creation that is fast and steady and urgent.
I want to rest in stillness, find strength in now.

I want precision.
I want surprise.

I want to make plans, keep the end in sight.
I want to meander aimlessly through revelation, experimentation.

I want change to come, swiftly and exacting.
I want progress in measured teaspoons without the violence of the knife.

I want to be less angry less often.
I want my writing to come from the bitter, twisted vitriol inside me and inside others.

I want the comfort of cynicism, the smugness of deconstruction.
I want to believe that even my writing can make a difference, differentiate, differ.