Act XXV, Scene IV
I enjoy the written word simply because…
well, it encourages me to live.
Without movement, words by me would cease to exist altogether; for my inspiration stems merely from pulse entirely.
Every breath, a letter, every heartbeat, an offer.
Some days, simply choosing to live is rather difficult; though, I love to write, therefore I must live to do so.
Without the good, bad and the ugly, my writing would live rather bland. Perhaps it may still be to some eyes, but to my own, I find it riveting: a symphony of heart…rivered out before me.
I cannot fathom any other way, nor would I have it.
To live is, as some may say, “the art of dying.” So, what is the written word if not an art itself? An abstract, confusing, and perhaps comforting art in itself.
For what’s an abstract piece without confusion, distress, and contrasts?
Just as a masterpiece yearns color, both vibrant and dark, I choose to write, therefore I must live on.
Courageous or not, I must live on.
