We are always thinking, at every given moment, if even of nothing. We reflect and ponder, create and envision. We are always dreaming even as we live; we are in a constant state of reverie. Our thoughts travel further than the depths of this world; we often think a thousand thoughts at once.
The line between reality and fiction is blurred, nothing is real; nothing is perpetual.
We analyse connotation, critique and admire. We perceive and experience emotions beneath the lines; observe everything from beyond the exterior. We caress boundaries, live on the margins of society and allow ourselves to be consumed by nature.
Happiness tastes sweeter, pain wounds deeper. Melancholy leaves us with darker scars and ache never truly abandons us. We extract beauty from pain, sorrow from happiness. There is depth, meaning in the contours of everything.
We breathe through our words and are nourished by reading. Books teach us life lessons, characters are our educators. Our senses are stronger, more awakened. We are aware that each pause signifies something. Each breath, each smile, each tear holds magnitude; there is credence at the root of them.
We are open to everything and are not afraid of rejection; it can be used as another anecdote or the undertone of our next poem. We revel in pain and misfortune; it provides us with the content for our next piece. Our conversations and experiences are treasured; our encounters aid our writing. Our characters are based on aspects of everybody that we know, our stories are an amalgamation of all of the people we have ever been.
We leave a part of ourselves in everything that we touch.
Our soul is poured into each piece, disguised and dejected, sometimes echoed. Sometimes our hearts are so broken that each word is derived from woe and sometimes we become so numb that our words are vacant.
We pay attention to the detail and construction of everything; we live in a constant state of formation. Our minds fast forward and comprehend quickly. We see truth and hope in everything.
We improvise and throw ourselves into fervent situations, sometimes for substance and sometimes to escape. Being a writer is a way of living. It is the filter through which we view life. You cannot merely become a writer. You are one.
We are more aware of ourselves and our emotions. We learn to rein and use them to our advantage. We identify the hollow of emotions; we can oversimplify or exaggerate them. We can provide enjoyment or mourning, writers can create dimension. We can construct anything, become whoever we want. We live as travellers, poets, explorers, motivators, sustainers. The world is in the palm of our hands, with even the veining being momentous.
Our lives are solitary. We are always alone, even in the midst of crowds.
We reside in the periphery of our minds.
Our pen is our only companion. We are content with this, we enjoy our own company, we rejoice in our solitude. The dialogue between our hearts and our minds is enough. The only people that understand us are other writers; they are able to look into the crux of our souls and perceive our beauty.
Our entire life is a novel writing itself as we live but life as a writer is beautiful. Our enjoyment of our existence is far more profound and there is a sweetness about life that is everlasting. We have come to understand and appreciate this, we may be considered as outsiders but life is more pleasant when you are far enough to perceive the framework that sustains the world. This is comprehendible only to a writer and we should take moments to marvel at the splendour of our kaleidoscopic eyes. Our hearts are mirrors; they become a reflection of the world. We live, we truly live and we experience the delicacy of each moment in a way that others are unable to.
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