“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” – Ernest Hemingway
At times in my life, painful times, times of rejoicing, times to dwell, times to move on, I can write, express myself in ways that only words can describe. Just like the keys on a piano, the words can be “played” with more emotion than just following proper grammar. The pen, the paper, become my haven. My place of refuge, even in a world where to say what you feel is to make your own grave.
It is the home away from the police who murder humans who have heart.
Hearts turn chaotic expressions into a straight and paved road, with side streets such as, “imagination”, “creativity” and “love”. Those many heartless only desire control, comfort and command. Disturbing their ‘perfect’ world is just enough trouble to justify the cleansing of truth. Without truth, we are nothing. Our truth, our words, carries generations into further inspiration and love. Their rules and regulations only limit the change that is in our very nature.
But the pen, she always calls me back. She wants more. I can’t ever fill the gap with ink, I can only cover it up. A wave of emotion will wash out that stain and I must return to my pad and pen. Her hunger once set me free, now captures me.
The thought of creation, some new door to unlock within metaphors and allegories, yet it all has been done. There is nothing new under the sun. Humbling, the pen pursues me. Chasing what she knows has already been put to pad, but finding satisfaction within the tides and waves of emotion transferred through my fingers. In a world full of people, only some choose to fly.
Our words and thoughts conveyed through artistic nature – rhyme, rhythm, prose, poetry. Anthems of glory prevail when our bodies deteriorate. Our songs of hope bring laughter and joy to the hurt, our songs of agony empathizes with the world. Languages matter not, for the pen speaks truth, not words.
Upon a piece of parchment we presume powerful prayers. The pen is mightier than the sword. History is written, re-written and forged through the view of one writer. Will the next author write the last chapter to our lives? Turn the page.
We write our stories, our tales of sorrow and woe through her, calculated scribbles of ink and our very soul is released. Must we fight…or write? Greed? Or conceded to her gripping calls and minute scribbles. Powerful she is, but if she have not love…what is she?