I Am

What is it that I want to write about? The ever-present truth, that loses meaning as time is devoted on the non-important elements of life that sustain the ego and rob the mind, heart and body of the nutrition that is vital for sustenance.
Who is this person that holds the pen and claims to know more than the others or claims to know more on the subject, to be an authority on the subject?
Who is this person that says “I write?”
I just want to write; to let words flow across the paper like a minute spark of coal spreads quickly and devours the entire forest; I want to devour the paper that is empty.
Is it a mere illusion?
Is the paper really empty? What do I write? My thoughts flying through my mind, like clouds in the sky. I AM NOT MY THOUGHTS!
Whose words are flowing through me as my pen forms shapes that are words?
From the formless depth of my being, I write about nothing, about being nothing, and about going back into nothingness.
What I call this form my body, is temporary. What I call my beauty is temporary. I use every technique available to a woman in this day and age to make my outer body presentable; palatable. But who knows what is this storm rising inside me?
Who sees the ugliness that is my negative thoughts that try to become the host of my body? Nobody. Who sees the beauty that is my inner peace that sits quietly inside me when the outside weather is cloudy?
The storm inside swells and seeps into my action.
Who is this who controls my thoughts?
Aren’t thoughts just visitors? Then why do we let them become the hosts. Who gives them the key to prolong their stay? Aren’t visitors called exactly that, “visitors,” because their stay is temporary? So are we visitors in this temporary world. Then why visitors host other visitors in a house that is not their own?
I want to continue writing; to end this gibberish but I let go. Someone else is writing, and she is mad; she wants to write, and write, and write and write; and let it all out in open so in the end what is left is the nectar; an ounce of truth that is my soul; bare, and vulnerable. Awakened. Like a new born.
But why am I in rush?