If life is a prison,

Then books are an adventure.

If life is the cage in which the bird is trapped,

Then I know why the caged bird sings.

Splattered ink on blank canvases incite melodies in the mind.

The most skillful scales leave impressions in our hearts for eternities.

It's funny to think that pages printed with markings on them could mean so much to people.

That people with complex lives and complex problems take moments from their lives to meander through writing.

On the surface value, writing if not for record keeping is actually so pointless.

Yet us human beings drift through words and pages no less intently as if our lives depended on it.

These are the lives of others,

Souls printed onto spilled ink, bare for all to see.

Drifting through pages, gliding through morphemes.

Lost in a paradise of ink spills.