On Writing
And now I go to bed. And I write as I fall asleep. No pen, just the people, the real ones, made from my imagination, living in the recesses of my mind, living, breathing, eating, forming opinions, and then we drift off. And like me they dream. So I write.
And I also dream. Ideas float like feathers, tickling and teasing and tempting and upon awakening I write the poetry that is the gift of the night. The poetry that was written by the whispers of the ages that spoke and said "Tell them this". I must obey. So I write.
Walking brings silence and the treasures of nature and I write again. This time the people of the mind walk in the rain and slip in the mud and the sky shares the pictures of the world they live in. The tell me to describe it, to give them their home. So I write.
The keyboard becomes my friend as all of the writing I've already done in my imagination slips like magic to the screen. The imaginary friends that are born of nowhere are now here and they tell me what to say. They speak their minds, and I am as surprised by the words they speak because though I created them, I still have to get to know them. So I write.
And sometimes, I lose one. Sometimes they disappoint me with their behaviour, acting in manners that make me wonder what they are thinking. They are immature and their motivation is irrational but what do you expect? They are only imaginary humans after all! Occasionally one is wise. Wiser than me and I wish I was her. But she's an original and simply shares her thoughts with me. So I write.
Then the end is near and their story is told and it is time to let them go. And their sadness is my sadness and mine is theirs. For they are mine, born of me and part of me. They are the people of my heart, conceived by me, given to me. So I write.
So I say good bye and let them all go, weeping.
New friends stop by though, to check up on me in the moments before I sleep. Just people. Real ones from my mind, introducing themselves, whispering let's get to know one another and I agree, lets. They tell me their stories and I listen as the silence whispers and the ideas tremble with anticipation. I have no choice. Their stories must be told. So I write.
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And I also dream. Ideas float like feathers, tickling and teasing and tempting and upon awakening I write the poetry that is the gift of the night. The poetry that was written by the whispers of the ages that spoke and said "Tell them this". I must obey. So I write.
Walking brings silence and the treasures of nature and I write again. This time the people of the mind walk in the rain and slip in the mud and the sky shares the pictures of the world they live in. The tell me to describe it, to give them their home. So I write.
The keyboard becomes my friend as all of the writing I've already done in my imagination slips like magic to the screen. The imaginary friends that are born of nowhere are now here and they tell me what to say. They speak their minds, and I am as surprised by the words they speak because though I created them, I still have to get to know them. So I write.
And sometimes, I lose one. Sometimes they disappoint me with their behaviour, acting in manners that make me wonder what they are thinking. They are immature and their motivation is irrational but what do you expect? They are only imaginary humans after all! Occasionally one is wise. Wiser than me and I wish I was her. But she's an original and simply shares her thoughts with me. So I write.
Then the end is near and their story is told and it is time to let them go. And their sadness is my sadness and mine is theirs. For they are mine, born of me and part of me. They are the people of my heart, conceived by me, given to me. So I write.
So I say good bye and let them all go, weeping.
New friends stop by though, to check up on me in the moments before I sleep. Just people. Real ones from my mind, introducing themselves, whispering let's get to know one another and I agree, lets. They tell me their stories and I listen as the silence whispers and the ideas tremble with anticipation. I have no choice. Their stories must be told. So I write.
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