Writing is a nasty business. One minute you’re speaking with your whole heart. Baring the issues of your soul on a white paper that seems endless. The next minute your words dry up like a shallow puddle of water on a hot summer’s day. The words fade to black and the feeling of flowing letters pulsating through easy fingertips slips away.
We sit with open palms writing for the pleasure of the moment. Praying for the eyes of excited readers to scan the lines of tactful words. We are not titans. We are bearers of empty yet hopeful words, subjects added to verbs. Creating sentences you never thought of but every portion read touched a sensitive nerve.
We fly like oceans swiping over wet dreams. We move like clouds rolling too high. Fighting for an opening to a sentence. Working towards a period that never dies. People have limited lives but the feelings they provoke live on.
Count me among the nameless writers who gave up but kept on going. Never knowing if anyone would read. Because they couldn’t change the world. And the successful are defined by monetary greed But the starving artist is defined by need.
Love always, Esha ❤