There is something infinitely enjoyable in writing,
putting pencil to paper.
Nothing specific
only the gentle scratchings of a mind
as it's formulations become real,
incarnate
on the thin sheets of nature we consistently find before ourselves when we begin to search for
something greater than
what we already know.
To think
to realize
to know.
To recognize the light markings we draw.
Markings made of the softest stone,
entirely encased by the very life it
stole
from the offshoots of nature's heart.
Markings pulled across the expanse
of a white sea of wood.
Even when given these tall wonders
that shelter and feed,
even then we ask for more,
we seek more.
We strip the skins and slice the meat,
destroying the gift we don't deserve.
And when it's finished,
when the only thing higher than our heads
are our self-empowered and forced presences-
Then we write.
We write of things we experience and see.
We write of the world and what we want it to be.
We write of things we don't know or understand.
But no matter how prettily we paint our literary landscapes,
we can only
deface
the small ripples
and soft whispers
of the lost memories
of what
was once
beautiful.
Mar 3
Mar 3, 2026 at 12:18 AM UTC
There is something infinitely enjoyable in writing,
putting pencil to paper.
Nothing specific
only the gentle scratchings of a mind
as it's formulations become real,
incarnate
on the thin sheets of nature we consistently find before ourselves when we begin to search for
something greater than
what we already know.
To think
to realize
to know.
To recognize the light markings we draw.
Markings made of the softest stone,
entirely encased by the very life it
stole
from the offshoots of nature's heart.
Markings pulled across the expanse
of a white sea of wood.
Even when given these tall wonders
that shelter and feed,
even then we ask for more,
we seek more.
We strip the skins and slice the meat,
destroying the gift we don't deserve.
And when it's finished,
when the only thing higher than our heads
are our self-empowered and forced presences-
Then we write.
We write of things we experience and see.
We write of the world and what we want it to be.
We write of things we don't know or understand.
But no matter how prettily we paint our literary landscapes,
we can only
deface
the small ripples
and soft whispers
of the lost memories
of what
was once
beautiful.
Originally written March, 2020
