Nov 2015
Writing is the form of self expression through black scratches of ink on ****** paper. When a person write's, their mind disappears from the mortal world of men and transcends reality, writing is akin to being a god. When you hold a pen in your hand or have your fingers hover just above the keys of a laptop, you are holding the potential to create a universe. To create life. The untapped souls that reside on the flat side of your fingers, in the ridges and whorls of your skin, cause your entire body to sway in time with the beats of your stories' hearts.
The sound of words yet unwritten echo around your mind their sweet honeyed vowels whispering ever so gently while the hard consonances beat a savage rhythm of the utmost beauty, falling and crashing rebounding along the walls that make up the border of reality; and together with the force of your will the words break the wall and there is no impossible. Stories manifest themselves on gleaming white paper, using your passion to create their blood, the light of your fevered gaze to make their breath and from your life they too come to life.
Sometimes their life saves yours...
You are reminded that the world is not just you, there are lives out there that depend on you. Somewhere out there in the unfathomable depths of a billion diamond universes someone needs you. Sometimes you never get to see the people who need you, they never hear you. But the words transmitted from the synapses in your brain to the black scratches on paper will last forever, and one day they'll see them and know that you were, even if by that time you are dust in the wind.
Pure words come from imperfect souls, their beauty derived from the pain faced throughout a thousand life times. Culminating in the perfect way to fall on that one person's ears to grace those one pair of eyes, the pain of a writer exists to bring peace to another.
Is it not enough to worship words? To wish so hard that you are the one receiving the peace for once instead of handing it out, before you realise that the peace you get comes from what you give and that your own serenity lies in the wondering of why skys S-K-Y-S is so much more attractive than skies S-K-I-E-S. Is it not enough to wonder at the glory of worlds and spiraling galaxies with arms twining about one another connecting to create something better...something greater. And it comes to you right before bed in that space between sleeping and awake, that those galaxies are you and those arms which twirl about so beautifully in the velvet sky are the sparkle in your eyes. That something greater is what you have to give, and it goes to show that there needn't be a rhyme or reason for doing what you love. Love itself is irrational, and yet we go with it blindly following the beating of our hearts to create more than we are. Our love is to spread a bit of ourselves into the lives that reside in our fingertips to bring that one person we may never know the peace they need, through black ink scratches on paper soiled with our pain.
The sound of words yet unwritten echo around your mind their sweet honeyed vowels whispering ever so gently while the hard consonances beat a savage rhythm of the utmost beauty, falling and crashing rebounding along the walls that make up the border of reality; and together with the force of your will the words break the wall and there is no impossible. Stories manifest themselves on gleaming white paper, using your passion to create their blood, the light of your fevered gaze to make their breath and from your life they too come to life.
Sometimes their life saves yours...
You are reminded that the world is not just you, there are lives out there that depend on you. Somewhere out there in the unfathomable depths of a billion diamond universes someone needs you. Sometimes you never get to see the people who need you, they never hear you. But the words transmitted from the synapses in your brain to the black scratches on paper will last forever, and one day they'll see them and know that you were, even if by that time you are dust in the wind.
Pure words come from imperfect souls, their beauty derived from the pain faced throughout a thousand life times. Culminating in the perfect way to fall on that one person's ears to grace those one pair of eyes, the pain of a writer exists to bring peace to another.
Is it not enough to worship words? To wish so hard that you are the one receiving the peace for once instead of handing it out, before you realise that the peace you get comes from what you give and that your own serenity lies in the wondering of why skys S-K-Y-S is so much more attractive than skies S-K-I-E-S. Is it not enough to wonder at the glory of worlds and spiraling galaxies with arms twining about one another connecting to create something better...something greater. And it comes to you right before bed in that space between sleeping and awake, that those galaxies are you and those arms which twirl about so beautifully in the velvet sky are the sparkle in your eyes. That something greater is what you have to give, and it goes to show that there needn't be a rhyme or reason for doing what you love. Love itself is irrational, and yet we go with it blindly following the beating of our hearts to create more than we are. Our love is to spread a bit of ourselves into the lives that reside in our fingertips to bring that one person we may never know the peace they need, through black ink scratches on paper soiled with our pain.
