Here I am in front of the LCD again, trying to count the pixels. I don't understand this need to write. I've been writing songs for years. Now I'm diving into journalism as if it's some mystical challenge yet to be conquered. Actually, it feels like the first time I dove off the high board with one exception: this pool is empty...and there is a long line of impatient suicidal zombies slowly pressing me toward the edge so they can have their turn.
Why I have this psychotic need to expose my inner self to the world is something only a writer can comprehend. It's certainly not a quest for ego gratification. I could just as easily walk to the mailbox naked in front of the 17 year old girl across the street for this kind of pain. Officer, don't you know who I AM?
Perhaps we, as writers, are pursuing a higher truth; a more advanced spiritual plain. A dimension no one else can approach or understand. That must explain why the email response to my first column was unanimous: question marks. Then again, maybe we're just addicted to doing a lot of mouthing-off but failing to ever take action.
As we approach the holiday season, let us celebrate this time of peace and giving. Let us remember those whose souls and bodies are truly exposed to the piercing December winds. They can not take solace in front of a warm fire. There are no arms to comfort them; no lips to kiss their tears away before they become sharp icy spears.
On this Christmas midnight, just once, let's do more than watch and write.
© 2005 Doug Fitch
"The Closed Door"
Thom Schyler on Songwriting
