As the New Year approaches I can’t truly help but express thanks and reflect over what I’ve written. It is impossible for me not to make this because 1) how can you continue writing without direction and reason? 2) You must always be thankful towards those who give you chance to express yourself.

Let’s begin with those who have read my poems and other writings, I know not all 76 people will read what I have to post, but for those who have stopped by and at least have seen one of my poems I appreciate that. It is amazing to be complimented over what you write, because most people are doubtful. Doubtful of what you write is even at the slightest good, as a writer, improvement is the chain that keeps us ascending and ensuring we don’t give up. I must thank each one, although some may be spam accounts, I still have to thank you all. (As I write this first draft I realize I cannot thank each of my greatest supporters, actually I can. I swear i’m not a complete idiot.)

I will always write for the sake of taking darkness and using it to create beauty. Darkness can range from being sad over a break up or being stuck in the loop of suicidal thoughts.

I can’t say I know the extremes of these situations but I know that darkness isn’t an anchor; it should never keep you down forever: it should make you realize how much you have and what you’re capable of, that their is more awaiting you in the future. As I see it, only darkness can push you into the light, I’m not stating that I wish evil to run rampant. I want darkness to reveal what weakens us and what can be done to improve us. As any good villain does for a hero, as any bad day does for the hopeful person.

I write because it challenges you to create something better, or try jumping over hoops such as writers block, which traps you when you least expect it. I can’t always find a challenge that I can genuinely write about ( example, on the First Day of Christmas) , but when I do, it is mainly me shooting out those words. I can write an entire story or poem that is purely bull- but I can’t live with the fact that those words were set for a few to view. Writing is a new world for me, and I view it as something to embrace and repel whenever it is required.

(I know that not all this will hold, and that at this moment my mind is fuzzy, I can’t properly come up with something concrete. Nevertheless I write to create, and not to defecate.)

I find that reading certainly inspires me, currently a couple of good poems, to try to innovate. I don’t enjoy taking a whole bite off someone’s style, but It just occurs subconsciously. You attempt to just make a writing that will be enjoyed, and then suddenly you read it to realize that the way it is formed is similar to someone you had recently read. At times it looks similar, but has a splash of you, something that you recognize is unique to just you, not always but sometimes. It is strange to think that ideas pop up from ideas of others, (including this one and those following it) but that’s how we advance a topic and create. I prefer classics over new book releases, because classics have almost a stamp that no amount of time can possibly tear its power that it has struck onto every mind.

The first ” Why I Write” was me establishing myself and my goals at the moment and as seen above I have yet to complete them. Every once in a couple of strange months it’s nice to see where your going and how you’ll get there.

Reading it back, I realize that I had more in me than I do now, a fire that could not be brought down.

A large reason why I write is the feeling I get when others see your work and enjoy it; I mean actually enjoying it. Perhaps I can’t see your faces, but you prosers are all amazing, the fact that you took the time to read anything of mine is just amazing. Most of the times when I post something I await the red numbers to appear saying someone liked your work, I feel ashamed by this, but I can’t help but be truthful. I feel ashamed to beg for people to read my work, I believe that if you find my writings then it is up to you to decide. I see this all as something that requires some sort of honor and respect.

This was written for all you amazing followers:(I put the @ for the comments beforehand , and I was to lazy to go through and remove them for the amazing writers/ followers, don’t judge me darn it)

@UnderMeYou(doesn’t follow, but has supported me from the start. Thank you so much!)

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The Man wore black leather. He was as black as the night. As black as a nightmare stealing through your open window and worming its way into your ear.

Ethan’s eye flew open, straining wide, his mouth stretched into a silent ‘O’. He couldn’t breath. Sweat stood out on his forehead, his hands clenched at his sheets as he writhed; as he twisted wildly to free himself of the fear that had overtaken him. Slowly the nightmare faded, shattering into small and fading fragments as the reality of his room became solid around him – the tick of the ceiling fan, the soft breathing of his wife beside him, the snore of his dog, curled up in the corner. But the air felt heavy. Stagnant. His mind grasping against his will, trying to hold onto what he had just experienced. What had it been? What had scared him so much? Something about a dark hallway, a hidden stair, an old woman at the top, rocking slowly as she stared at him and willed him upwards. What had that been about?

The Man was frustrated. His work couldn’t complete if the subject woke up, the nightmare could never finish. Another hour wasted. He huffed silently, trying to calm down, trying to regain the creative energy that had evaporated as soon as Ethan had opened his eyes. Had he pushed too hard? He felt that Ethan should have been able to handle what he’d thrown at him, should have been able to make it to the end of the dream. He sank into thought... perhaps the old woman had looked a bit too much like Ethan’s grandmother? He would have to re-double his efforts.

Ethan sat up in bed. He was fully awake now, no helping it. He looked at his bedside clock. 3am. Sigh. Another night without enough sleep. The day would be wasted. He would be like a zombie. There wasn’t enough coffee in the world to keep him awake. He was pacing now. He didn’t know how he’d gotten into the hallway, but here he was. It was nearly pitch dark, just a small amount of light glinting from around the corner toward the kitchen. Had someone left the fridge open? He walked slowly toward the light, placing his feet carefully, he didn’t want to wake anyone else up, it was bad enough that he was awake at this ungodly hour.

The Man was humming softly. If you could have heard him you would have thought it was a sad tune. A dirge perhaps. All minor keys and odd timing, something suitable for a funeral procession or playing over the ashes of forgotten battlefield. He was humming because he was enthralled with creation. Focused. Totally committed. This time it was going to work.

Ethan felt the hallway was longer than it should have been. Longer than he remembered it anyway. Perhaps the dark was playing tricks on him. He was more tired that he thought. He kept walking and the light grew steadily brighter. This couldn’t be the fridge, it was far too bright now. Bright enough that he was having trouble seeing anything else. It was surrounding him, moving towards him as he move towards it. He was compelled. He couldn’t stop. And then he stepped through it and he was in a small attic, cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, brushing against his hair and his face. He had to stoop, couldn’t stand up straight in this small, musty, wooden space, a slow rhythmic creaking coming from close behind him. He turned slowly, knowing what he was going to see, dreading it, hating it, but he couldn’t help himself. He turned and saw the old woman in her chair, white wispy hair, papery skin showing through, her skull barely covered. Her eyes were on the floor as she rocked, head bowed, her small shoulders hunched up around her ears. Ethan couldn’t look away, he had to look away. And then her head snapped up, her eyes meeting his, a strange fire in those eyes, energy arcing across the small distance, stunning him, freezing him in place. He tried to scream but his breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide and straining.

The Man plucked at the strings of the dream, carefully now, trying to extract what he needed from it, trying to teach Ethan what he needed to know but…

Ethan found himself in bed once again, his mouth open, a silent scream stuck in his throat, his hands like claws on the blanket. He stopped moving, focused on breathing, the fragments of the dream evaporating like a morning mist. Morning. What time was it? He looked at the clock by his bed. 3am. He was wide awake. No chance of getting back to sleep now. What had the dream been about? An old woman? An attic? What had been so scary? Something about her eyes…

The Man was breathing heavily. He had been so close... but it had fallen apart during the most critical time. All his effort wasted once again. He settled himself into a lotus position, closed his eyes, and focused on his breathing. He would get it this time.

Ethan stood up and walked into the bathroom. He needed to use the toilet and get some water. He took a couple of paces and swayed dizzily. He was so tired. The floor felt strange under him, too hard against his feet, painful almost. The bathroom felt too empty, like all the life and energy of his house had been drained away, replaced by these bare walls and empty corners. He tottered toward the sink and turned on the faucet, needing to splash some water on his face, but nothing came out. He turned the handle backward and forward, staring dumbly at the fixture, hearing it squeak and grate under his hand. What was that smell? Rotting leaves and musty mold. The smell emerged from the drain, dust and grime covered the sink, dirty and evil looking. Ethan stepped sharply backwards. This wasn’t his bathroom, something was wrong. The floor was warped and broken wood, the ceiling too close and claustrophobic, the toilet broken, cracked and leaning against a wall. From over his head he could hear a rocking noise, the wood squeaking, dust sifting down to settle in his hair. He knew what it was. His feet led him slowly out of the room and up the hallway toward the stairs. One by one, footstep by unsteady footstep, he moved upward toward the sound of wood groaning under the weight of the steady rocking. He tried to close his eyes, he tried to look away, but he was glued to his course. Compelled to open the door, to step inside, to see once again that ghastly face and shrunken body. With an incredible act of will he forced his eyes closed, squeezed them shut, stopped walking and willed himself awake. Willed himself to open his eyes into reality and out of this awful dream.

The Man smiled. He was close now.

Ethan found himself in his bed, snuggled deeply into his covers. His room was warm around him, welcoming. He could hear the steady breathing of his wife, her solidity and warmth comforting to him after those horrible, awful dreams. He didn’t want to wake her, but he needed some comfort, needed someone he could share these racing thoughts with and terrible fears. He’d woken up so many times, was he really awake now? He slowly moved his arms and legs. Everything seemed normal, his body felt like his own. He turned slowly over onto his side, still unsure if he’d wake her, but needing to see her at least, to take comfort in her presence. As he was thinking these thoughts he noticed that her breathing didn’t sound right. Too raspy. Like there was something in her throat. Like her lungs weren’t working, her breathing labored and forced, and so he started to worry. And then he startled backwards in horror. The woman in his bed, laying at his side, was not his wife. The old woman stared back at him, a crooked smile on her face, her hair wild and floating about her head like a ghostly halo.

“Hello Ethan,” she said in her croaking, crones voice. “Don’t you remember me?”

“Oh my God,” he screamed, unable to form any other more coherent words.

“Now now, my sweet, no need for profanity. I’ve been waiting for you for such a very long time. It’s OK to enjoy this moment.” She reclined her head backward and closed her eyes in contentment.

Ethan’s chest ached, his heart beating so hard he felt as if it was trying to escape through his ribs. “Who. Are. You?” he managed to pant out.

“I’m your Aunt Edna. You don’t remember me? Oh well.”

“Why are you here? In my room? Where’s my wife?”

“Oh? This looks like your room to you? I guess that would make sense. Don’t worry about your wife, she’s fine. It’s you I would worry about. You aren’t so fine. Not so fine at all.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Welcome to the afterlife Ethan.”

Edna started laughing and it wouldn’t stop. Cackling laughter poured out of her as the room around Ethan spun and changed, the walls fading to grey, the floor becoming insubstantial. The only thing left in Ethan’s universe was the cackling crone, bent over coughing and wheezing in merriment.

The Man stood up and brushed off his hands. His job was done. Another human delivered from his Earthly existence into the Astral Plane. Ethan had died peacefully in his sleep earlier in the night. A heart attack. Sometimes it took people a while to come to terms with their new reality, but Ethan would be fine now. He had Edna. He would be just fine.