Pose of Immortality

There is a burial mound called Maeshowe in the Orkney Islands that dates around 2700 BC. I went there with my parents after graduating university in England. We stood inside the stacked stone tomb, sunlight shafting down onto runes carved into rock older than pyramids. The words were simple. Olaf was here. Sven is an amazing sailor. They were graffiti carved in the 12th century by Scandinavian marauders. It was hilarious. Offensive. Ironic.

Writing, reading, speaking, singing; of all the ways words come out and linger, writing has gravitas. There's something downright addictive about slinging language onto a page exactly how you mean it, leaving it to cool and returning to the same sentiments rearing up at you with their raw, original power. Only this time you believe it more than you did when you wrote it because now it has life. Writing is learning to take the lead in a tango with immortality and who doesn't want to live forever?