I write to save my sanity; I write to save my soul. To say my piece. To regain composure. To lick old wounds. To die trying. To rise above the ruins. To hold the pieces of essays in my hands like sand. To believe I have something to say that matters.

I write to lend myself to the whole. To sing one more song. To let the shutters bang in the midst of the storm. To heal myself. To bend myself into a pretzel of a paragraph and salt it with adjectives. To stop hating myself. To love what I am and do.

I write to be a manifesto of nothingness. To whip myself into shape. To make it look easier to live than it is. To be read by the one person who is out of touch. To be understood by the firing synapses of a stranger’s brain.

I write to get your attention. To stoke the fires on an unknown camp site. To put things right. To shove the rock up the hill. To batten down the hatches. To prepare for war. To make peace. To toast to survivors everywhere.

I write to speak of nothing in particular. To tell you that I have fought the good fight. I have eaten crow and humble pie. I have run with a stick. I have leaped small buildings in a single bound. I have carried the correct change for any conceivable small purchase. I write of nothing that will survive but love.

It is quiet now. I have banked the fires of words for the evening. The stars are out and the words are dying as they will and should. All that survives is silence.

Vicki Woodyard