If I knew I could love you til infinity, I shall do so and beyond.
Stretching past the stars.
It is not unknown.
You are as the sun.
Shining ever so brightly as I orbit in exploration.
Drawn by space and met by the canvas portraying beauty.
The world’s of your mind.
Umatched and soothing light casting rays.
The outpouring of love felt and keeping me ablaze.
Burning waves met with passionate embrace.
A love that stretches time and space and is met.
Ever so present, without a doubt, love is now.
Being from beyond.
Unmatched form finding focus.
Coming to surface
Shimmering light clouds its appearance.
Darkened tones met by warmth amidst unknown forms.
Bringing unto itself clear collection from such perils of the shadows cast.
See it come to surface.
It appears from the deep.
Blades that pierce in passing.
Sharper than knives of steel.
Held in firm handles of dirt.
The forests to miniscule beings.
Mixed with tones of Earth to share its touch.
Engulfing all if not kept in control.
Watch the workings of man tame this beast.
It becomes the broken grass.
Light drawing out a new beginning.
Stretched out and surrounding its radiance.
The genesis of what is to come.
Bringing waves that flush out the endless abyss.
The calling of the universe.
Breaching the heaven’s embrace.
It comes from beyond.
What truly is the life of a writer? I ask myself this question as I reminisce the tales sung about me. It is as if an epic was shared and my voyages now stretch through time, yet they remain on shores. Letters of my exploits reaching wandering minds, still grasping at what these words may reveal.
To be a writer, I’ve been told one must write with such passion that it is a revelation of God. Perfect strokes on paper or art orchestrated with the rhythms imagined within the minds of the audience. To illustrate or articulate what many wish to describe but fall short yet find understanding by these creators. Characters shaped by emotions or experiences, reflecting the authors. A stereotype drawn as if we must fit into a criteria to prominently be labeled as writers. To carry the torch. To bear witness to the storms of our minds. To hold a printed part of our soul or find its essence upon a screen. A writer.
I’ve grown troubled by these parameters drawn by people. It will now mark more than a year since I’ve taken the title. Being a writer is not something I do but who I am. I cannot deny that for the longest I had no proper form or understanding of who I was. My gifts. Yet, I now find myself drawn to the worlds that orbit me and wish to be explored. Only I can share such tales or bring about the voices that plague me. Yet I suffer from no delusion, only clarification to what I am capable of.
I am not “known”. I do not cast rumbling words to ask for my name to be known. Let my art speak for itself, my words, define who I am. Though we live in such an age where an image must be drawn to properly grab root before we see its true foundation. It is a mind-boggling ordeal. To write this and know that there is another who struggles as I.
Efforts to have our work come to light or even be at peace by doing what we love. Crafted to be engineers of an art form we ourselves are consumed by. I still marvel upon these discoveries and though they keep me at the ready, I continue. I must write and in so doing, I continue to breath life.
Crossing mind met with its own story.
Signals to communicate reason.
Finding its center as it surrounds one another.
Drawing closer to a conclusion.
The thoughts merging to find the answer.