Why do I write?

Why do I write?

I write, not because of the scribbled assignments smudged all over the blackboard. I write, not only because of the stifling stack of homework spilling over my desk. I write, because it is the hammer that smashes the dam blocking my flood of ideas into 

tiny, 

tiny splinters.

The ghost of a smile that flits across a face, the spark of indignation that flickers bright in a pair of hardened eyes. A fastidious mind with scrupulous care, a surreptitious wink flittering in a mindless manner up into the cerulean sky. Writing captures ideas into a net, it molds them out of dribbling, wet clay into clear, porcelain beauty. It describes, flawlessly, the odd discrepancies a mind could not quite possibly fathom without the aid of words. The sheer joy of filling a page full to the brim with exotic, tropical stories, the light, silky fluttering of gossamer wings, the skirling wail of a kraken lurking in an abyss deep under the sea. The gentle, pitter patter of an ant's footsteps you can read, yet silent to your ears.

It describes, quite vividly the hushed whispering of sun rays filtering through a leafy canopy, the tiny 'tpp' of a pin thudding onto a heavily carpeted vinyl floor. The tranquil murmuring of the white, frothing mass coalescing upon the sea's turquoise, the wordless slithering of a dew drop making its way down the meandering veins of a leafy frond.

Words slow down time, 

they miraculously manage to shift moments into slow motion. 

The speechless widening of eyes, crestfallen tears welling inside until it brims over, trickling down wetly upon her skin, coursing over her cheeks and dripping onto a freshly ironed collar, remnants of the tear drop seeping into the fabric filaments of carefully woven cotton. Every carefully written description takes up only a fraction of the time taken to skim through it.

Words capture a picture frozen in time,

 A camera that catches the most exquisite of details. 

Wispy, curling strands of smoke, mere tendrils of limpid gray drifting off into the blank, soulless sky. Lips smeared with blood red crayon pressed together in mirthless cheer, bits of pink staining blindingly white teeth. The imperceptible quiver of a camel's long feathery lashes as a gust of wind sifts through them. It catches the imminent state of a pencil before it rolls over the edge of a wooden desk, that very moment where it barrels hesitantly forth, rocking between two of the straight six edges its maker so painstakingly crafted with meticulous care.

Words, they weasel their way down into your heart,

 capable of sparking a glint of hope in dark swaths of inky blankness,

 or string barbed wire dripping with poison round and round your mind. 

They record, most accurately the small twinge of happiness tinged with regret settling deep within your stomach no scientist can investigate. Words spy, quite mysteriously, the lingering fear that abducts your conscience every time a particular memory surfaces.