Writing is a simple art form.
26 letters, jumbled together in various combinations. Even reading your own
tongue, it’s a series of markings; you group them together and make of it what
you will.
You see the word tree and
think of one, but your tree is not my tree. No matter how many words I load and
hang on “tree”, your tree will never be my tree.
Then there’s the tools.
Simple; a pen or pencil, and paper, traditional.
But sand and a stick, rocks
in a row, they all work well.
I write because reading is no
longer enough. I can read others’ people, their worlds, their dreams, or make
my own. Create my own stories, anything I want, and no one will stop me or
interfere, no one can.
What a power, what a
pleasure?
And then, when I’ve done,
there it is, and I marvel at it. Anyone can do it, but no one else can do this.
This is mine and mine alone.
I made it and there will
never be another quite like it.
But there’s another,
waiting…to be made, to be freed.
