Being a writer is a very lonely thing to be.
Unlike a band of musicians working together to create a symphony;
a writer is but one person.
You are all alone with just your thoughts. A pen, and a paper, trying to make sense of the loneliness. You hope someone will understand but knowing no one ever will.
It’s a very lonely place to be.
In a room by yourself, writing about loneliness.
The words on a page holding you together granted you should
crumble if you don’t let it flow from the ink.
Yes, it’s very lonely. Very quiet indeed.
Words not like music are silent, unassuming, and not demanding. Gentle almost. The silence is deafening.
If not for the sound of your breathing and the slide of the pen, you would almost think you were dead.
Alone and dead with only a pen and page as your companion.
Only the brave ones know where writing truly stems from
and where it takes you
The places in your mind and imagination that you thought you had forgotten. The memories you never knew you had. The dreams you never dared speak of.
It’s a road not travelled at all.
A sad and painful place where the rivers
are made out of tears.
Very lonely. Very heartbreaking.
Very beautiful indeed.