And there was nature. Vast and sprawling. With stars and light and sun and shine and sweet smelling rain off ashen clouds. And was created trees to walk amidst on grass that was soft and flouncy.
And there were letters that were vowels while some formed consonants. From thence formed words, and paragraphs too, embossed on paper , bound and adorned.
Here I walked, as I did in nature too, amidst row upon row of glossy books, which cradled within them, worlds set free by a writer's mind, vast and infinite in a reader's imagination.
I've a question for nature...
Do you accept what I've created? Do you accept my vision of you? Do you accept my words as a medium to describe you? Do you accept that my interpretation will not be interpreted as I interpret you for what you are?
This is my failure, where I strive to be what I can never be. This is where all those innumerable generations of writers have tried but failed to create me as an accurate representation of you.
But this is also my success, for I've proved every time, the fallacy of bounds with which to bind you and have set you free in the minds of those who pen me down, limitless to the eyes of those who read me.
That is my success, for when I strive not to be you, I'm infinite in my dealings with you.
