To Write.

Verb.

To watch ink stain the yellowed pages.

To create stories,

Narratives,

Other lives.

Other worlds

In which my imagination can flow.

In which my characters can come alive.

In which my creations thrive.

In which my voice, my stories,

Can be seen.

Can be heard.

Can be enjoyed.

Where my art

My purpose

Is.

Where all my anger, my ranting, my pain

Flows onto the page

And just disappears

No longer a problem

No longer a part of me.

The words are

Where my existence lies.

Where Lucas, and Fey, and Katrina, and Stevie, and Jonah and Fei, and Cassie and Savannah, and Lola, and Sarah, and Sidera can

Talk.

Move.

Act.

Dance.

Love.

Where people are capable of happiness, kindness, and joy.

Where nothing bad happens

That can't be solved

In a hundred pages or less.

Were books are created.

Poems come to life.

My anger is turned into

Nothing.

But strokes on a page.

Where I can write.

Be free.

Where the world around me dissipates.

For an hour.

A minute.

A day.

I am nothing

But strokes

On a keyboard.

Words.

On a page.

My fingers and mind racing

Which can go faster?

A race against time.

Who can say more?

Not caring about spelling, or grammar

That can wait.

My voice, mood, words

That is the priority.

The story

Is all that matters.

The story...

A noise.

A click.

A sound.

My train of thought.

My unconscious.

Gone.

A bird.

A dog.

A voice.

Destroyed.

No. Focus.

Turn the page.

Keep.

Writing.

Anger. Love. Joy.

A wrath turned into stanzas.

Love is but a chapter.

Joy is but a song.

Who am I?

Who do I want to be?

A writer.

I am a writer.

A better writer.

An author.

A poet.

Someone who can turn words into phrases into stories.

Someone who can make a reader's eyes cling to the page.

Their memories, my character's memories

Flowing, colliding, crashing together

Like a powerful stream.

They are like I am.

An unconscious being.

The world dissipating to only the story.

Only the words.

The characters

I want to make my characters grow.

I want to make people feel something.

I want to be good. No. Great.

But I'm not great.

I can't stop.

I can't find a conclusion.

My characters, my friends. I want them to live forever. I want their stories to go on. Forever.

I don't want them to grow. I don't want them to leave me.

But they have to. For them to truly live

I have to

Let

Them

Go.

I need to learn how to let them.

They can't be

A Perpetual Existence.

Perpetual Existence.

The day to day phrases.

I remember when I first said that.

I was texting a friend.

I knew it would become a title someday.

We found it.

Time. Thyme.

What would happen if thyme stopped?

It was a ridiculous idea.

But it worked.

It never happened.

The characters were never brought to life.

Still in our heads.

An idea.

That's it.

That's all they'll ever be.

Trapped in thyme.

But it's the little phrases.

The little gems.

That stick with you.

My favorite book, a book with a plethora of gems, is called Everyday. It is profound. There's a section that talks about how we're all the same. Christians, Jews, Muslims. We all believe in the same religion. It's all one god. We just see him differently. We just see different sides of the story.

Every conversation.

Every line of dialogue is a gem.

A little work of art.

I want that to be my legacy.

Legacy.

No. I didn't write Hamilton.

I am not Shakespeare.

I will not go down as a genius or the founder of a genre.

I will not be a famous poet.

A writer for the New York Times.

Winner of the Nobel Prize.

I don't want to.

I want to be known for me.

My conversations.

Everyday dialogue.

What I said to my friends, my family.

The gems.

My dad once told me that I was one of the best writers he knew.

I'm a writer. A dreamer. A speaker.

To Write.

Is to be me.