Writing doesn't come naturally to me. At least, not as strongly as it did before. Even back then, when I got flashes of inspiration, the trail of words would vanish before I find where it's supposed to lead. I have to flail around before I can write an ending. An ending, not the ending. Not the gut-wrenching, stomach-churning, heart-racing finale to a most wondrous epic but a somewhat sensible resolution to a story that had potential.
And I know this sounds horribly depressing (especially as the first post) but I've come to approach it as one does when faced with universal facts - with an almost imperceptible nod and a shrug of my shoulders. I am resigned to my inferiority.
It doesn't, however, change the way I feel about the written word. I am still in love with words, with books, with poetr:
I am in love with its sights, in the landscape of Paris and the darkness of hidden alleys.
I am in love with its voice, in the softness of a child's tone and the roughness of an alcoholic's slurs.
I am in love with its scent, in the crispness of pre-loved pages and the promise of newly opened books.
I am in love with its tastes, in the sweetness of first love and the bitterness of farewells.
I am in love with its spirit, in its hope to shake a person's core, changing him/her for good, for better, and for forever.
Ironically, this reverence for words (which dissuades me from knighting myself as a writer) is the same thing that motivates me to write. I hope to improve my skills so that I can effectively transform my thoughts into words. I want to be better so that I can transmit my message to a broader audience. I want to be better so that I am able to touch another's heart.
I want to be better so I that I may one day call myself a writer.
It doesn't, however, change the way I feel about the written word. I am still in love with words, with books, with poetr:
I am in love with its sights, in the landscape of Paris and the darkness of hidden alleys.
I am in love with its voice, in the softness of a child's tone and the roughness of an alcoholic's slurs.
I am in love with its scent, in the crispness of pre-loved pages and the promise of newly opened books.
I am in love with its tastes, in the sweetness of first love and the bitterness of farewells.
I am in love with its spirit, in its hope to shake a person's core, changing him/her for good, for better, and for forever.
Ironically, this reverence for words (which dissuades me from knighting myself as a writer) is the same thing that motivates me to write. I hope to improve my skills so that I can effectively transform my thoughts into words. I want to be better so that I can transmit my message to a broader audience. I want to be better so that I am able to touch another's heart.
I want to be better so I that I may one day call myself a writer.

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