I am lured away from ordinary tasks or chores or pleasantries, and somehow end up behind my computer to capture in words the images that I see or the revelations of times once lived, or the emotions once felt, or an occurring moment that in some way impacts me and the world that surrounds me. And, for one brief moment, words define and explain who I was or who I am.
The words on a screen before me reveal the images that I see in my mind, and the words I write explain the raw emotion of a moment; words that flow through me attempt to evoke and provoke what I felt or faced or tried to forget, or am feeling at the moment.
Great people have written great words — words that have inspired generations, and words that have calmed the hearts and minds of a world in chaos. And sadly, there are those who have spoken or written words that have inflamed and outraged a world on the edge.
And, then there’s me. Not great.
Not a scholar of the human mind, nor a philosopher of this or any other time. I simply write the words that consume my mind and stimulate my thoughts. I write the words that may display my anger or my rage, or words that may bring back times of joy and times of laughter. And I write words that make me wonder and make me think, or words that bring back memories of war, and times and places that still wake me in the middle of the night.
I write words that make the world around me more comprehensible, more reasonable and logical. I write words that the world inside of me hears. I write words that echo in the shadows of my nights and words that find the shelter of the morning light.
I write words that help bring to light the confusion, the disorder, the chaos and uncertainty that confronts us with the morning light, and that assaults our minds and our emotions into the waning hours of the night.
I write words of my childhood, of when I sat by my mother’s side and heard her read the words that seemed to soothed her and inspire her. The words that gave her comfort and gave her peace, the words she heard on Sunday mornings sitting inside a house built on the promises of unquestioned trust and love.
I write the words that explain and define the essence of one man — me. I write words that delineate the character and display the outline of my evolving mind and constant soul. I can write words that describe a rainbow after a morning rain, and words that express the emotion and revulsion at seeing the carnage of young men lying lifeless in a muddy field in war.
I can even write words that can move a human heart and lift a soaring spirit to unimagined heights, and words that can plunge the mortal consciousness to realms beyond the bounds of understanding, like the abysses of war, of hate, of unbridled power, greed and deceit.
I write words that shade me from the deluge of fabricated realities by those determined to control the things I think or speak or see. I write words that shield the fragile beauty of the truth. I write words not spoken or heard, that show the power of thought through the freedom of words.
One word at a time — I write the words that no one speaks but thinks.
And everyone always asks me the same question: What is the answer, what is the solution, what is the remedy to the problems and the evils that you write about and that haunt and trouble your mind? And my answer is always the same: I write the words, and it is up to you to think and reflect on the words and emotions and simply react. And if you asked, that in itself was the purpose of my words.
Al Garcia lives in Palm Valley.