Why do I write?
I write because of time. Such a precarious and yet precious thing. It's what makes patience and the hours during school tick ever so slowly, and after the birth of a new born child the crying the screaming the yelling and when the norther begs for it all to stop blinks and her little boy is all grown up now and man and is on his way to a new life.
Because of reality. A wonderful thing it can be for achievers and perfectionists, also striving to make the best with what they have, but a terrible concept for the dreamers, imaginists, and creatives. Reality that brings forth some holds back others.
For freedom. To let wings that will never grow, to flourish outward and thus: soar! The rhyming of music being my sight, is solum, lonely, like my candle light.
Pensiveness... All these thoughts and questions must go somewhere right?
Furthermore noticability; notoriety. This these story's saying thus must maybe possibly potentially, should souls silently slide, slither, for such a sight as my readers wondrous spectacular performance might entail, that all I wish for, is for others to enjoy my stories.
Deny science. A number of possibilities are the outcome of these results: either I will fail and become just a leave among many during the fall, or I will spring forth and rather, stay attached to my tree, so that I may stand out from the rest.
To live.
Writing is a form of life. It preserves the memory of time and contains its precious information in a time capsule of power, it will never loose, and readers in the far fetched future may still enjoy the ancient text. Reality can be painful, as I specifically have come to perceive its lessons, but is always possibly to escape, as long as you know how. The freedom of being able to do whatever you want, WHENever you want, is my dream. And dreams were never meant to be restricted. My pensiveness.. I never stop thinking; nor the questions, nay the possibilities. I want people to read my story, the poems, my literature, and every time they close the book, always come back for more. And deny the limitations of the world. The imagination is a powerful indestructible thing. Mightier than Superman, it can bend steel, create magic, even change the very laws of the universe itself. Nothing can hold me back.
If I want it to be real, I simply have to write it.
