I looked for the reasons
Searching the seasons
The whys
I write for
The whens
I write
And found answers
On the shallow surfaces of pride
Where my gifting is stirred
Where it abides
Every prompting
Causing it to rise
And settle on the surface
Present with feeling
Absent of purpose
'Sing me a song'
'You have a nice voice'
'I sing songs'
'Because I have a nice voice'
'I'm good at singing'
'I have no choice'
'But to write these songs'
'Because I have a nice voice'
'I love singing'
'They love to hear'
'I love to perform'
'They love to stare'
'I'll feed them songs'
'And they'll feed me here'
'With devotion, attention and deafening cheers'
'I love to sing'
'But I have a bad voice'
'I'd love to perform'
'But I have no choice'
'But to stick the bathroom'
'That well sealed void'
'Where my voice won't sound just like any other noise'

And so what would I have said to the writer I found in the depth of my investigation. How would I explain to him how shallow the deepest gifting can be? How immeasurably low the loftiest pursuit? He could write to pass the time. He could write and time would pass by cheering him on. 'Amazing,' time would say. How would I explain to him that time can stand still? That the future can refuse to forget him. That the past can boast of him in it's old age.
He wanted to write to pass the time. Maybe he didn't want to but that's what he did. Because the present is deceptive in that sense. A million eyes today won't equate to the same a few steps forward. As time passes by, only the timeless won't pass away and the realm of the timeless is a different conversation. Giftings can't go there. Not alone. Something different has to happen to you. Something beyond the scope of language, of appetites, of the things you know to be pleasure. Of more than words give the liberty to say. There are things that can't be spoken. But they can be heard. They can be sounded. They exist in forms too great to condense in speech. These are the very things that echo from generation to generation but scarcely are they connected to. Stranger still are those found to be acquainted with these things. For they seem to have tasted something far better than we have, claiming sometimes more than we think is possible.
Stranger still, is the writer I have to explain these things to. For he has no clue. He's gifted. It's deep. But there's so much more that it's like all this time, he's been asleep