On Writing

I have no concept of these words, of this writing. This entire month has been this: Quantity with no Substance.    

I am writing around a shadow in that transitioning border - light to dark, dark to light, elusive grey. This black ink on this white paper is melting into some unrecognizable form, the shape of the writing itself.    
I desire the act of writing; want to put pen to paper and unleash words and ideas into space, but in this process I am continuously losing focus. Not in the sense of following a tangent and letting the writing go where it's going to go, but in a loss of thought - Dead End.    

I don't know what writing means to me, but call myself a Writer anyway.    
I write   
I write well sometimes. 

September 12, 2005