My mind is vast, racing, and serene. I spend most of my waking hours in a realm of my own, battling demons, going on adventures, and debating facts. I think as if every word should be written down on paper and published for the public to criticize and enjoy.
Trying to sleep, I turn and twist, great expansive worlds opening up before me. Sleep rarely comes, because the utmost vividness of my worlds beckons me further. I can sense it. i can feel the pain, I can feel the embrace. Sounds fluttering in and out of the great visual movie that goes on inside my head. Each caressing hand, each shimmer of a chipped blade. Both the glimmer of the light reflected from marble stone, as well as a textile imprint of it's smooth, smooth surface.
Isn't that what writing is about? Portraying your emotions and senses down on a sheet of paper in the form of personified figments of imagination? To allow data you obtained from previous experiences and past knowledge to be recorded onto fragile short lived pieces of thinly sliced wood so that other people can excel using the knowledge that you have received?
Why is it that many people don't know that? Why is it that many people would rather write without soul, or for the mere thought of profit, instead of firstly via passion, and later to currency? Anyone with a thought can jot it down on paper, but it takes a real artist to show the real beauty involved in writing.