A writer sits, hovered over his desk. He shuts out the doldrums of the world, puts away the distractions of a life less ordinary, and prepares to unload. His mind is an overflowing sea of thoughts and emotions ready to burst through a dam of obscurity.
In his right hand, he holds his pen, a companion tool. With it, he wields limitless power. He holds the ability to create and venture into endless worlds, travel across hundreds of galaxies, hold the universe in the palm of his hand, or turn any life of normalcy into an undiscovered adventure.
His left hand grasps his forehead, just below the hairline. His knuckles are white and disjointed as they press deep into the skin. The weight of his thoughts tug on his burdened soul.
His heart is heavy and the stage of his mind veiled in darkness. He withdraws into deep caverns, wracking his brain. His mind echoes with voices of pain and pleasure. His heart aches with the pangs of a thousand knives and, at the same time, floods with joy as beautiful as a mountain meadow draped in royal beauty.
In his mind, exists an untold story of adventure. Drenched with experience. Filled with personal tragedy and downtrodden hopes. One of dreams, not yet realized. With the happiest of endings.
And so he writes. His blood soaks the pages like blotches of ink. His heart and mind squeezes the story from his soul like a clothes wringer extracting every last drop of water through it’s rollers.
He breathes life into the story. With the placement of each character, the blank canvas comes to life. A magnificent story for the ages. It’s not just any story, though. It’s HIS story, HIS dream. HIS reality.
He writes for others. Not for praise. Not for the critic. He writes for the dreamer and the adventurer.
He writes, with the depths of his soul, so that others… might live.
*Read the continuation “A Writer’s Soul… continued“