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There is one word that I definitely would not mind waking up to in the morning; one thing that I would do even if I could only do it for ten minutes and I could only do it at 4:00 AM. What is this word, and what is this thing, you may ask? It's writing, of course! Oh, the feel of my fingers soaring across the keyboard -- but of course, there are those other ways to write rather than pounding my fingertips down onto the smooth surface, indenting a letter on each blank page. Oh, no. There is much more than that to do.
Another source that quenches what my heart desires is to brush my pen atop the flawless white surface, only to forever taint it with the splattering ink; each stroke reveals another stain, which is to never be cleaned unless it is magically touched with some sort of . . . well, magic. It is of permanent stature and will always have what my hands had formed and what my mind had created.
Then there is the writing in my brain; it's where it all starts. The way my cells conjure up all of the imagination that one could ever think of. How could such a thing come up to existence? It is unbelievable how satisfactory I become when a story is finished, and the tension has disappeared like mist on a sunny day. It's a passion that I do not think I could really live without -- it is something that I enjoy doing with ever little bit of talent that I ever have had.
Do you feel this way, too, about writing? You may or may not. But even if you did have these feelings, you still would not totally understand me, because it is different for everyone. Yet, you may just have the mind equivalent to that of a writer; thus, you are one, and will forever be cursed with that ability. Or, perhaps it is a blessing? I suppose we will never know, for everything tends to contradict itself nowadays. Either way, I still enjoy this writing that keeps be awake at night, whether or not it is a bothersome thing. Why?
You wouldn't understand, my friends. It's something of an indifference to all the world. I might die if I could not touch the keyboard with the flowing thoughts that run through my mind. I might just fall down if I could not stroke the paper leaves with my pen or my pencil, able to banish it from its sinless life hood.
It would break my heart. Literally.
If you have this very same . . . well, is it instinct or personality? Maybe it is of the very mind that God gave us. Who knows? But if you have this same desire and passion for writing, then maybe, just maybe, you'll understand. Perhaps this fire that has started up in the ever so confusing 'heart' is in yours, too. Whatever the case may be, I think I know who I am. What about you?
Sincerely,
Mayonnaise.
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