Salutations, writers and spinners of tales, fabricators and liars and hoarders of truth.
What, today, will you write of? Shall it be a glorious tale of true love? Or a webbing of deceit and despair? Shall you conform to the stanzas, syntax and rhythm of expectation or will you rewrite the details of pen-stroke itself? Will you draw illustration and give audience to the screams of the world or muffle them with a poet’s pillow? For the life of the pencil hardly ceases in itsscratch-scratchingwith the wealth of inspiration from the world, or lack thereof, respectively; flinging graphite’s atomic particles this way and that, razing the fiber and imprinting your ideas, however farfetched.
How is it that your command center envisages your masterpiece? Do you become plagued in the night, awakened by your muse’s tender whisperings to your subconscious mind? Do the honey sweet voices speak to that timeless, multi-dimensional part of you which still dwells and toils while your earthly body sleeps in expectation of tomorrow? Do ideas present as a cold sweat, a lump of fear in your throat that won’t be removed until you have channeled it out of your soul for fear that the idea itself would swallow you alive? Or are your notions contrived in an homage of the things that we cannot accurately call beauty and love?
To what, I ask, is the end?