Some people are artists
Some people are art.
Others have the miraculous blessing to be both
Others are cursed to be neither
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In the beautiful words of John Marcus:
“Sometimes words are a little too hard to catch. They flit and flutter all over the place almost impossible to catch, taunting and teasing me with the worlds I could create.”
And the last part caught my attention, upon reading it. “…taunting and teasing me with the worlds I could create.” Cause I've written a novel, and currently I'm writing its sequel, and I essentially created a whole world. A whole global history, a whole global culture, a whole everything on a global scale. George Lucas, that literal genius, created a whole galaxy, far, far away, along with Martin Goodman creating a whole universe, Gene Roddenberry created a whole world on the USS Enterprise, JK Rowling created the Wizarding World, Angie Sage created one of my favorite worlds, the world of a seventh son of a seventh son with a name with seven in it.
Writers, in their own genius creativity, write worlds into existence, cover to cover, create them and steer them in a beautiful direction: forward.
And then I remembered. God created man and women in his image, and God literally spoke creation into existence, and the Bible recorded the event into literary immortality. So if God spoke (literally) everything into existence, and we fall short of His Glory eternally, then couldn’t we create worlds? Not, like, literal, physical worlds, but maybe a literary world, like authors do?
A world you could get just as lost in?
And words, words, the beautiful creation of the written form, constantly taunt and tease me, they challenge me, they call out to me to keep creating and writing worlds into existence. But we don’t need to write worlds into existence to make our words amazing: even I myself have written small phrases, not just worlds, but sometimes even the smallest things have the biggest impacts. (IE, my toddlers.)
(John Marcus has a beautiful mind, seriously, it repeatedly blows mine away. Keep doin your thing, dude.)
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And I felt your happiness
        And I felt your pain
                And I felt what you felt
        But I didn’t feel your emptiness
And you didn’t either
                                                               :;,

She was the ocean
She swelled and broke, and when she swelled, she was grinning ear to ear, and twirling around, and laughing and singing, and when she broke, she was sobbing, wailing, curled into a ball so tightly that it seemed she’d never move from there again
She tugged me forward and pushed me back, and when she tugged me forward it was happily, into tights hugs, into small pecks on my cheek or mouth, to twirl around with me in a small waltz, and when she pushed me back, she was sobbing, her past was too much, the pain was too much, and she kept pushing to make sure I stayed far away enough
She was deeper than the ocean. Her thoughts went deeper than the deepest part of the ocean, deeper than I had ever known. She thought things deeper than I had ever begun to think about, she thought about life, death, love, nature, beauty, and things I would never think about
She expanded my horizon, like the ocean. In the city, when you looked at the sunset, the buildings all blocked out the beautiful sunset, and the entire horizon. But, at the ocean, you saw the entire horizon, and you saw the sun disappear behind the earth, and it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.
She is the ocean
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