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Sixteen
(at the day's end)
turns to seventy-six.
Don't scorn aging when so many
die young.
the emptiness of this world
is shattering me
to pieces
If I died tomorrow
I'd not only leave behind notebooks and pens,
Pastels and chalky handprints on walls,
But entire worlds and emotions stronger
Than the winds that make skyscrapers dance.
I'd leave behind scribbled screams and
Sacred secrets blurred together with
Reds and pinks that passionately slur into
Truths that have never been told.
I'd leave behind dragons that exhale purrs of wisdom that can be harmlessly crafted
Into beautiful cat eye shaped diamonds,
Which would decorate the neck of
Each breathing creature.
And children born with a thousand unshrivable
Hearts that beat for every being,
And hold nothing but compassion
That burns smile shaped scars into every mind.
If I died tomorrow,
I wouldn't leave behind anything special,
Just the worlds I'd hope to greet with
Arms held high and a happiness that will
Prance across fields of sunflowers.
"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
...
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)

— The End —