Because writing is beautiful.
Pulling words out of the atmosphere
And onto ‘paper’
Hoping that there will still be words left
When I reach up again for more tomorrow,
Wondering if the ideas in my head
Truly belong to me
Or to Someone Else
Who crafts and stores infant ideas
In the heavens, waiting for an earthling
Willing to nurture and raise them
Into fully formed stories.
And once written,
The words find feet on the wings of the Internet
Rushing them across the globe
In an instant,
In the hopes that those for whom the words are written
Might stumble upon them
And find them beautiful.