Joy of Writing (Rant):

One cannot express—the joy of feeling a pen in one’s hands again, the wonder at the soft crinkle of recycled paper and the scratching of marks marring the delicate blank surface.  Only your words, your thoughts, leaving an impression upon this paper as lives imprinted upon a soul—a never ending dance of parchment leaves, fluttering in tribute to the ancient (must-have-been) gods that created such a glorious substance for us to scrawl our lives on to. 

It is a substance that stretches and captures every second in a moment of eternity; it is one that traces the delicate human physique, musculature, in the awesome movement of life or the profound silence of death.  This substance that follows the path of a tear as it slips down one unassuming cheek is the same as the one that causes the breaking heart of the crying girl; it causes the death that causes the heartbreak; this substance plans the funeral and describes what types of flowers and people are present.

…However, it is the human behind these ordinary scratchings of pen on parchment, the human that transforms these mundane events, conversation, and thoughts of the brain, saturated with the dullness of modern mortality. …It is this human that turns these tears into diamonds, these cries into screams, these incoherent spouts of randomness into universal emotion. 

As a writer, one taps into the deepest wells of the human psyche that unites us all—the universal, awe-inspiring, somewhat overwhelming goal, promise, love, and hate—the inexplicable, insane, glorious truth in being alive.

4-17-04

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A/N: I wrote this at three in the morning. Standing up. Drinking raspberry tea with absolutely diabetic amounts of honey mixed in. Enough said.