I write, because I am extraordinarily passionate. Yet when in the light, I seek the shadows. I have difficulty speaking my mind audibly and an easier time transcribing my thoughts virtually.
When my theories hit the digital sphere, my mind is free and flows forming lines and meaning from the spaces. I weave a rope, of sorts, with words remaining. A wonder it is to receive the world inverted and explore the transformation. What have I absorbed?
My hands are strong. They expressively type the voice that I believe to be my conscious. Only then I am able to find meaning at the very core of my being. I am contradictorily fascinated with enhancing and authenticating words that hover like clouds and escape like rainbows.
There is much in the depths I have not yet explored. I write when I have something to say. Vision spun to thought and eloquently translated to language, which cascades into words that fill the page with declaration and promise. Whatever happens to the words that catch and never fall through?
In the final crescendo my visions emancipate and thoughts electrify as if I were a melody. Lips move, but no voice can be heard, at least not by ear. Where do the thoughts flow through? How can the mind create such a creature of words themselves? When the fragments are mended and the words awaken they run by, spelling out flesh and bone.
I write for the story, for my own sanity, to navigate the contradictions, to oppose the naysayers, for the sophistication, to progress, to advocate, and to reveal. For the hope that one day I will discover in another life what she wrote. Survived the storm, crumpled, torn-up, and burned, that never held her back from the type that characterized her soul from a billion others.