INK AND THE SOUL BETWEEN THE FINGERS

If i could i'd write to you everyday, i would then do so...just the way i'm doing it right now!
a step closer with every word, i displace myself even more closer to you,

i love writing
i find it to be one of the most graceful gesture,
it undoes, it relieves,
it blends ink and the soul between the fingers.

i write, when i feel well;
iwrite, when i suffer
Writing, is'nt like a phone call, its much more full with oneself,
to write, is an act that upsurges from within;
the ink translates the soul, it's nuances and subtilites
to write, if one could settle down so that all the heavens and hells may converge upon the pen point
the soul and the chant, the ink and the point??
Sponteneously seizing the outsides with your insides;
Sometimes, i feel that i don't write anymore with my pen, but with my suffering, and sufferings knows not writing with a pen, but with a knife...therefore, all that could be written, are nothing but drops...drops of blood spreading.
ceaselessly, they fall on a page, not the usual way,rather, in a wordless way, bleeding phrases.

Sometimes, the darkness devastates my being,and there's very little light left ,
and me ,the Don quixote fight against the windmills.

However ,today is a day the penpoint wants to chant, so i find myself in a position, as malleable as possible.......a natural joy,just as a sun coming into the spaces can only fill with light, a light that renders visible, the beautiful world.
the crap, becomes more beautiful than the "diamond sutras",
there's no crap when the heart's so full of love, so clear and sponteneous to all things.
And then?
If this is'nt prayer? then? what's it??