Writing means putting down words in detail that express our minds, hearts and souls. We are in an age now where fewer people are reading books. I wonder what will happen to my collection when I am gone?
And as I put down words, most likely they’ll drift in the wind and dissipate. Each word tiny, like each umbrella stem of this flower post-blooming, takes its place on the page. If you look closely at the words, the flower in its white puffiness (still beautiful though the real glory is past), you see the individual structure and it’s awesome. When you pull away, you see the meaning, the shape, the wonderfulness - the whole.
I think all writers hope to strike a chord in others, putting down one word after the other, hoping that a whole forms.
For me, it’s struggling with the past, determining how I became who I am, trying to leave something for those who follow so perhaps I will make some sense. In retrospect, when people are gone, then those remaining construct an image and idea of who they were, as if it can be done. Each person received a reflection of a sliver and if all the shattered slivers are put together, then maybe....
