I just received a text message from my cousin. I sent him one earlier asking if he wanted to go out on Saturday night, and he responded saying that he wanted to but he had an essay due on Wednesday and couldn’t spare the time. That’s usually the way it is with him.

And of course I don’t mean to be critical. I certainly shouldn’t look down on anyone with more than my meagre share of application, and essays and the like are important. But it gets me thinking nonetheless.

Well, for mine it’s always this: if I’m not busy living then what do I have to write about? What goes on to the page, when all is said and done, but the collected experiences of my friends and I? All the things we’ve been through, what we hope for and what we fear? Be it the driest text (and I’ve penned a few dry ones) there’s always a stake, a reason, that comes from outside and makes me mean what I say.

Because we don’t live through what we write, but let it stand for us and the lives we have.

Because, without passion and curiosity rooted deep in the love of our world and our friends, words on a page are

well, pointless.