It’s the paper, the pencil

The computer, the document

The book, the author

The emotion

It is not talent or practice

It is honesty

Pure trust in oneself

Realness

Raw giving of oneself

It is taboo and confession

Secret and opening

Divine in its welcoming

The complexities is what you write

You don’t write what’s easy, you don’t write what’s simple to grasp

You reach, stretch out your slim hands, fingers thick with want, anticipation

Grabbing all the ideas you can take, like stars, your heart tumescent

It puts a smile on your face

Writing isn’t tedious, it is tempting, it is redeeming

You write what makes you cry, what moves you, what keeps you up at night, what gets you going

It is not an ordinary job or hobby, it’s a movement, a nice meal, your guilty pleasure

The fulfillment of the words become you

It’s nothing else but you, you and your room, your brain

It’s the unconsciousness, it’s the loving of phrases and styles

The unknowing, the fear, the oblivion of what words will spill

When I write I don’t think, I feel

I feel what my heart speaks and I write its cry, endlessly, beautifully

It’s like brewing coffee, the aroma of french vanilla roast

Sweet to your nose

The warmth soothes your throat

Like the pencil hugs your hand not the other way around

The keyboard and its letters kiss the buds of your fingers

They welcome you home, enveloping your joints

It’s like sitting on top of a mountain, alone, warm breeze, hope in your heart, adventure on your mind

The smooth yet rough rock lays against the palm of your hands, cool water running through the lake

Chilly, clear, purifying

A baptism, the water softening the thickness of hair, hand on your head, the chants of saints, the bells

The choir, rejoicing, singing in a precise harmony, white robes, bright lights

You wade in the water

Cleansing, the scent of lemons, creamy lavender, hot honey, wax dripping, sweet aloe, warm, early, sunny mornings

Being real in your words makes you invincible

Untouchable

Unreachable

It heals, soothes the tension in the neck, cracks the back muscles

 

Writing is like the strings on a violin

Thin, but sturdy

Complicated, maddening, shrieking

The pluck of the musician’s finger

It’s a knock on the door, welcomed visitor

Its presence like fresh air

It puts you at peace, tranquility

You write to serve a purpose

 

It’s like dancing to your favorite song, no one watching, blinds closed

Blasting an old record, swinging in the room

The wood, your dancefloor

The wall your mirror, you focus

Hair swinging

Sweat sticking to your back

Letting loose

Swaying your hips to the beat

Rhythmic, on beat

 

To write is to be real

To be you

To love, immensely

To learn and teach, forever

To be a ‘titan’, relentless, bold, frank with every word

Vivid, original, unique, truth and honesty. Candor.

Peace and madness

Happiness and sadness

Love and Hate

Fiction and fact

Satirical and serious

Opinionated

Religious

Historical

Truthful

Simply Beautiful