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Remembering writing is important. Too often, excuses crop up that push off times when I can write. Some of that makes sense. I have a job, I have a social life (sort of), and I need time to give my hands a break from the daily pounding I effect on them.

Still, memories exist of random moments, when I proved to myself that I could write, any time or any place. And, more importantly, that sometimes, I write for reasons other than myself.

Welcome to the past:

A hotel room, in August 2008, as the clock ticks past 1am. The hotel resides in that small radius of Baltimore that folks feel safe just wandering about in, though, I couldn’t hope to remember it’s name for you. Everyone else has long since fallen asleep.

At the desk that passes for a work station, a macbook sits open, plugged into the wall for fear of its power failing. It’s an old model, bought in the fall of 2004, and has survived three continents (Japan, maybe Australia, definitely multiple years of college life in Hawaii), one mother (as a hand-me-down) and finally, into the hands of the brother of it’s original owner. Now, it can barely open more than a few youtube videos and word processor at the same time. It will survive another 4 years, three more in college and write a thesis paper.

Sleep should have been the best option, a long weekend lay ahead, but the music and the ideas demanded writing. More than that, though, the words weren’t really for me. What story they served, that knowledge has long since faded, but the purpose—the energy behind them—remains.

Among those gathered, friends and brothers and bothersome fools no one would miss, slept a girl, blissfully unaware of my attempts to impress her. Certainly, no one else in the room knew or cared, except my brother. Too often, I find him aware of things he shouldn’t know in life.

I think, that night, the words I chose to form into existence held little importance. They amounted to little more than a few paragraphs of the Dark Masters story, a sequence which, probably, doesn’t even exist any more. I know the girl doesn’t know this happened.

What is important is that, in the middle of the night, during a busy weekend, I found the will to sit down and write something. A few words a day, that adds up in the end.

The memory of why doesn’t really matter, nor does it do the memory any real justice. What is of importance is the feeling of writing long into the night. I wasn’t on medication then, and that feeling in that memory, filtered through time and life, remains a potent reminder of why I continue to write. I keep searching for what I felt in that time, when worlds poured onto a page through keys pounding endlessly on the keyboard.

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