I remeber the rush.

The moment pen touches paper.

The smooth glide on blank slate.

Infinite array of options,

Potential, that I never had. 

 

The feel wasn't all however,

It was also the mystery.

This mystery haunted the room.

Laid on my shoulders.

Resided within my mind.

Until it overflowed.

Cascading, blotted as arbritary signs

Signs that themselve meant nothing,

Unless joined in a cordant song

One continuous and fluid.

A river of feelings.

A torrent of thoughts.

Manifesting in a small portion of nature.

 

This is the essence of it

A concept that has so often been lost amid the natural chaos

This world brings.

This idea, rather an ideal

Is that of unity.

The sense that writing can bring forth unison .

Writer and feelings.

People and messages.

Entertainment and thoughts.

All brought face to face

Giving up a small essence of itself to the other.

This, I believe, is the essence of it.

To bring together elements, that would otherwise be disjointed.

That is the beauty of

The sixth sense.