I Write

By Andrew R. Duckworth

I write to record.
What I mean by that is
Personal history
Doesn’t write itself.

I write to bring clarity.
Sometimes I don’t know
What I’m saying
Until it’s down on paper-
Probably a symptom of
My slight neurodivergence.
It makes talking difficult.
I often avoid it when I can,
Unless it’s something I have
A lot of knowledge about
Or something that I’m deeply
Interested in.
I despise small talk.
It confuses me.
You expect something important
And then there’s that.
No, Nancy, I don’t know
What the weather will be like,
Just wait and find out.
Ironically, small talk is
A way of life where I’m from.
And, again, I find myself
Sidetracked, another symptom,
Yet, perhaps it is exactly
What needed to happen.
After all, personal history
Doesn’t write itself.

I write to communicate,
As if that’s not a given.
Even if there’s no response,
It’s out there, waiting perhaps.
I don’t expect responses.
I welcome them, sure,
But there’s nothing
Particularly profound
In what I write,
Just a bit of this and that,
Daily pondering and recording,
Nothing that might catch someone
By surprise or force exploration
Of the depths of the soul.
It is what it is.

I write to be.
In some ways, I feel as though
A part of my very existence is
Wrapped in the written word.
I was written into existence,
I write to exist,
And perhaps I exist to write.
Write what? Who knows. Not me.
I write what I write,
But what I write is a part
Of who I am. I write to be.