Why I Write Vol. 10 – Darby Mae
“You are an aperture through which the universe is looking at and exploring itself.” – Alan Watts –
Peripatetic, offbeat, I am the poster child of odd jobs and a shrewd opportunist–here, there, anywhere–always ready to go further. Spontaneity and I get along well. Call me quixotic and I won’t deny it. Originally from the Land of 10,000 Lakes, my ensuing trajectories have brought me to myriad places, from Wellington to Paris and many dwellings in between. Freelance writer and creative visionary, my love of language and people foment a desire to create a rippling dent through the Universe. And I need your help. But for now, here’s a little peephole into my ______ mind. I’ll let you decide the adjective.
“Why I Write,” by Darby Mae.
This fucked up, albeit beautiful blue-green marble.
Writing is the cynic’s nepenthe. It is a portal to new dimensions, to unknown territory, to no man’s land, where any spirit can commandeer your human body and give you words, ideas, stories even, that had never before crossed your conscious mind. How freeing it is to bathe oneself in timelessness.
Home (naïve melody).
Pen and paper, fingers and keys, it is my metanoic antidote and spiritual release. (From society’s “mind-numbing loudness,” from the hollow hullabaloo of the world wide web, from me, from you, from them.) Words grow old, but do not truly age as us humans do. They are the man-made (or God-given?) amulet of paradox: both meaningful and meaningless. Because words are neither mortal nor immortal, (how does one trace something so arcane, so prone to deception?) their presence and subjective employment might as well be purposeful—a catalyst for one’s solace, their intention notwithstanding. They offer all of life’s necessities: shelter, power, love, warmth, sustenance—even toilet paper when life goes to shit. In writing, you learn of the home within, of its apparent or lacking feng shui, and how to build it back up when Nature runs its mercurial course.
The infinitesimal, the extraordinary, the mundane, the insane.
And everything in between. You’d be surprised how describing a single blade of grass can elicit such uncanny results—and indeed, reveal such curious layers of one’s character. Akin to Elias Attea, I write so that others, too, may discover new curves and corners of their intricate being, of the perplexing world, and of diverse perspectives not familiar to their own. To commiserate and confess and share and question and discover one another on a deeper level; how powerful it can be to arrive at such a landmark, to experience the intangible worth and weight of a single phrase or passage.