Just a history major fixing to graduate who loves to write.
Nature sleeps and Nature yearns, Days pass and the world turns. Animals wake and loose their cries, Of days long past and untamed skies.
You are my light, my joy, my very existence. You are so many things I can't put into a sentence..
We stood in dense forests, We listened to the ocean, We talked with the mountains, And gave our devotion.
Imagination is only the spark on the anvil of creation. Diligent work is the hammer that pounds and shapes that spark into something extraordinary..
In the act of creating something, the artist often leaves a part of themselves behind. It is the part of their mind that is in turmoil, the part that craves to create.
You call me a dreamer in a derogatory tone, as if to say I am lazy or unrealistic. Rather I would say that I am a realist, just not realities other people know or see.
What I see before me is what is called Reality. That which most assume as the only true level of existence.
Across the Universe stretches Life in all it's myriad ways and forms. Beings spent from creation with powers and talents running the gamut. And yet each has a latent power that supersedes all others.
I write because I must, there is no choice. It is like not using a limb; it is an action of both necessity and survival.
As Tolkien once wrote, if you say that the sun is green in your tale you must explain why. It is not enough to just say it is. Even though it's fiction you must make it real, for it is real.
To create, I must destroy. I must break apart the barriers of my own imagination and find what exists outside of it. It is not enough to imagine something, you must discover something new.
To write is to convey a story through imperfect means. Words are but poor reflections of ideals and truths, riddled and warped by our own limited understanding.
Is writing the act of creation, or is it merely a reporting of other worlds and places. Do I write to make something real, or do I write because something is real, somewhere..
Let us stand on the precipice, facing the horizon. Though the dark overwhelms, let us remember the light. For out of the night will emerge a new dawn.
I would give anything to fly among the stars. To see worlds unknown and wild. And yet I can. Through my pencil and my words no place is unreachable.