open letters to no one

authors

I see words everywhere.

your eyes are full of novels I'd love to read word by word, but I only get glances when they meet mine. sometimes the things they spell out send a shiver down my spine, and that shudder reads "I thought I only lived in dark places but turns out, I am one."

the wind dances to form letters, words, sentences that anyone could read (but never do). it can scream and pull at me, writing a story of anguish, loss, fury. sometimes, though, the light touches on my hair whisper and giggle as the lazy loops create a scene of bliss and laughter. the wind has always been one of my favorite authors.

striking shadows and unforgiving edges represent the stark style the mountains possess. there are endless novels that lie among the rock and snow atop these giants. I learned to incorporate contrast into my writing from the mountains' age-old stories. when the sun sets over those achingly bare and honest words, it only illuminates how profound they really are. standing on a mountain and hearing the whisper of the wind intertwine with the heavy writing they rumble is one of the most beautiful works I've ever read.

the sun spells out trilogy upon trilogy with the glare of her rays,
the ocean waves splash word after word of their infinite novel,
and here I am with nothing to say.

pockets full of letters eager to string together and form something wonderful but they stutter and die in my throat. my mind is nothing but words and yet the ones that escape my mouth are the poorest ones I have to offer.

I will always be searching for books and stories around me (and there's plenty to find) but when I sit down to pen my own novel, all I see is a blank page.