A Writer, A Discovery

I write to find myself. I write to sort this all out. I write because my heart and mind have much more to say that my mouth could ever accurately convey. What I want to say and what I have to speak are two realms that kiss out of pure guilt and pity. It's the first lock of lips that repeat till they can get it perfect. I will scramble words and phrases, phrases of words that intertwine the most delicate of thoughts. I don't know where I'll be, I don't know what I'll become, I don't know how I'll get there, but, I know that if I continue to write, poetry or prose, that no matter what unexpected force cripples me, I know I'll be alright. The doubt digs desperately down, dark and deep: I've become my own monster, my own villain. A mistake that the manual of life never mentions. The hero will always win; the greater good overcomes and overwhelms the broken bad. Life is a toggle between strength and weakness, and I write to assure hope prevails, and nothing less. Once the discovery of how shattered dreams can be sewn together by the brisk of encouragement, it all started to make sense. I began to write because the map of my future can be pathed with words, thoughts, my own creations. I write, for reasons bound to me, exploration. Searching far and wide, above and beyond, of who and what will remain when I'm gone. I search for that barren treasure, a buried heart, both delicately locked inside a chest. I tell myself every day, even when there is no peace when I sleep, "I am an artist; I simply use words to paint my canvas." Write when all is lost, giving light to the darkness.

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