I write to a world that has no use for me. To a world done with reading. To a world already impatient, cutting me off in mid-sentence to get to the fucking point already. To a world that is fickle and moody, that does not “get” me. To a world that regards my artistic inventions as tasteless mistakes, grammatical errors, blazing stupidity, or just plain ineptitude. To a world that would rather be reading someone else: someone who entertains them, someone who doesn’t feel sorry for themselves, someone more prestigious or famous, someone who could help them get ahead. To world that assumes I am easily quantifiable: pathetic, negative, hysterical, or bitchy, that my perspective is narrow and skewed. I write to a world that does not want me, does not see me. I write to a world that actively destroys me.
I write to a world that hangs on my every word. That delights in my voice. That follows me everywhere, wanting more of my stories, hungry for answers, meaning, ever curious and alert. I write to a world that is gentle and caring and always listens. A world full of indescribable beauty, wonder and emotion. A world of incredible sensitivity. I write to a world that cares, that wants to live freely, authentically. I write to a world that sustains and heals me. I write to a world that nurtures me.
Both passages are true.
And most of all, I write for the sheer joy of it. To capture the ephemeral, the fleeting, the elusive and the wondrous of all things normal, exotic, or unknown. Working my hardest to contain the precious power of things beyond me, striving (foolishly, ambitiously) to capture that which is beyond my control. All for that glorious moment when your creation seems to breathe, to live on its own, and take flight.
Text and pictures by M.P. Baecker
Note: I am currently on a writer’s retreat in Grünewald, so I will not be responding to comments at this time. I look forward to sharing more of my writings from this retreat with you in the near future!