The Writer

The Writer Part II

He lives.

He lives because he writes.

And a part of that life is given to all that he writes.

You see, the writer cannot die,

For him, physical bounds are just as real as the entire cities, worlds,

And people that he creates.

The writer is strong, and stronger still,

For he has realised that losing himself upon the seas of emotion,

Abandoned in the cold alleyways of thought and imagination

Was just another story to tell.

And the writer has many more stories to tell, here and beyond.

Many more paths to walk, many more thoughts to path.

A clear, hopeful, radiant wind has lifted the choking fog from his place of inspiration,

Carrying it away on sweet breezes, over mountain peaks and valleys alike;

What has been revealed remains subjective, its importance diminished.

What was once constrained, bound, restricted

Is now free.

Free to flourish in the whimsy of ingenuity, of pure creation.

So he writes.

He writes stories. He writes poems. He writes music.

He writes because it is all he has ever known and all he will ever know.

By some cosmic decree, written in the stars, he writes.

He writes because without it, there would be no writer.

And that,

Simply,

Is not allowed.