I write because when I write blood runs on to the page and forms rivulets that merge into an ocean. A sea – a jumble of words with all their twists, turns, curves and corners.

Words that sit together comfortably like old grandmothers. Words that curl around each other, scaly like lizards’ tails. Words that talk, words that sing. Threads like guitar strings, each a unique note that resonates on the page.

I write because I need to, because my heart beats louder when I think about it.
I write because writing is my romance, the love affair I have been engaged in since childhood.

I write because it’s magic, because I weave a tapestry of words and images that weave their own stories.
I write because it is how I connect to my inner source, my creative consciousness, the essence of the universe, the hidden within, the core.

I write because I love the flow of the ink from the nib, from my fingers, from my arm, from my brain, from my heart.

I write because I love it… because… because…

I write because I am writing, I am spilling, I am bursting through the present moment and pushing into the next. The edge of this moment stretches like a piece of elastic that splits and the next moment is born – a painless labour.

I write because it’s a thread that has run through my life – one I always pick up again, each time with a renewed intention and inspiration.

I write because this is how I have recorded my life – through volumes of journal that I have kept since I was young. The books I have filled in the last 8 years chronicle the journey of my life as a seeker, a spiritual practitioner, a lover, a wife and a mother.

I write because I want to share my dreams and my inner world with my future self and with whoever wishes to tune into my radio.

The idea is to literally write each idea as it comes into your head, not stopping to alter or control anything that comes onto the page.

For me, the results are often extraordinary. By switching off my normal analytical, critical mind, I open up a channel through which the creative mind can express itself.

I may end up with a jumble of nonsense or a coherent stream of ideas but there are almost always a few gems – words falling together in beautiful ways – to hold on to.

I sometimes go on to use these nuggets of poetry to spark off another stream of consciousness or edit them to create a more polished piece of writing.

The road full of fallen
branches and stones.
Bare skin of toes
Pierced
by jagged shards
of wood and flint.

Though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
that clawed at my throat,
threw my hair up to the sky,
howled down the canals
of my ears,
I walked on.
Steady purpose burning
between my eyebrows.

And there came a new voice
singing,
breaking through the sharp
edge of night.
It kept me company,
curled itself around
my fears
like a cat
with a warm belly.

The skin
of the soles of my feet
thickening, strengthening.
Footsteps carving a path
through the debris
of fallen cities.

The song, burning
like the stars
through the sheets of cloud,
linking me
to a deeper melody
that murmurs
beneath the vast stretch
of ocean.

In the silent, stirring, yearning depths of herself
an unheard song like a hushed whisper
called for some magic to weave itself into a spell
that danced on the page.

She felt nourished by tales of wizards
chased by shadows
and turning to hunt the darkness
with a staff bleached in light.

And she longed to tell a tale
not unlike those she poured over;
thinking that maybe in that
lay the quenching
of her soul’s thirst.