Written::.

Pencil to page. Blank. Garish.
Pencil to page. Slight. Timid.

Rain trickles past the window, insight falling alongside the droplets.
Thunder rumbles through the sky, murmuring dulcet tones of admiration.
My eyes upturn toward the ceiling, thoughts of stories swimming, muttering in my mind.

Rain draws the inspiration to me, its soothing rhythm swaddling me in heartened imagination.

Grays, devoid of chromatic value, soften the sky, showering a nourishing affection upon the land.

I sit; I think. My pencil tip alights upon the page, positioned at the beginning. The beginning is always the start of a world. The start of a life. The start of something undoubtably new.

The beginning: I write of its sorrow and sin. The beginning: I write of its joy and virtues. The beginning... Its world and life are new.


My pencil has scrawled the birth of an entirely new existence.
I see that which is me, a scribe of uncomprehending thought. I know that which is me, a penman of illogical reason.

My heart expresses these feelings, these emotions, these visions upon the page.
My mind forms them into symbols, allowing them to be understood by anyone with care enough to look.

My mind and heart link hands.
The page is no longer without substance. The page is no longer without meaning.
The pencil is now proper, straight. The pencil is now steady, still.

The rain falls softer now, tears of joy at my triumph.

I am a writer.