The Writer

ii

In stories the winners win and the losers lose. The lovers love and the haters hate. Everyone is painted in vivid black and white paints and, as a result, depth is dead.

Meaning grows on stunted trees of morals, in orchards of clichés and half-ideas. Characters are as thin as dried out blades of grass and blow helplessly in the wind.

I just want to write something beautiful, but I can't. The world clings onto my feet and refuses to release me. My imagination is weighed down by heavy reality. I want to run and sing and jump and cry and laugh and cheer, but only with words and paper.

And I want my words to make other people feel like that too. I want my words to fold like wonderful origami and create a world in which to escape to.

Only now I am stuck. Trapped in the orchard of clichés with the thin characters, stunted moral trees and black and white paint. A flat world, where the winners will always lose, the losers will always win, the lovers will always hate and the haters will always love.