to write is to be written

I would like to become a writer. I don’t know if it is possible now –I’ve gone so many years without training my soul in this way. Why do I want this? Because I want to generate ideas, possibilities. Why? To reinspire, re-enchant, to help people see that underneath the skin of the worlds they’ve grown to accept there is still a magical understory –and always will be too. But if I am unable of accessing it often (the cause of my infrequent writing) then what makes me think I should be investing myself in the role of messenger? Perhaps I should approach writing differently. Perhaps I still have too much conceit when I write, to many hopes and aspiration, and my venture is still not as pure as it is when I draw. Couldn’t writing also be a silent study intended for no one, but whose goal it is to see better? Couldn’t I also engage in as careful as possible description of what I see around me? But words are already so loaded and impure- I can draw the softest, of delicate line when I draw the flower stalk of a nearby Elephantopus, but how much more difficult it is to choose words so free of pretension! And even these words I write now still betray a sense of judgement –and also a fear of being judged. Yes, medium of writing is more difficult than drawing is if one’s goal is as mine is.
Part of the problem is the issue of “expression”. When drawing, I quickly realized that it is not about self-expression. The goal is description, understanding, familiarity, relationship, adoration –and the side effect is expression, but it is expression of the creative force that is producing what is drawn. But with writing, how can I choose words that rid this text of “self-expression”? It is not possible and this is the hidden dagger and hidden hubris behind our consciousness.
How interesting it is, though, that I started off this blog with nothing at all to say but the text winded and wove itself down into this little kernel. There is a movement of the cosmos even here, a rolling wave quite unconcerned with whatever frothing accoutrements my little ego chooses to adorn it with.