Words can never describe how you feel, sometimes.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try. I feel as if when I write,

the words flow from me and do not separate

from me, but are a part of me.

An extension of my limbs that are never severed.

Wiry tendrils emitted from my fingertips. Connecting me

to the letters, words, sentences, pages of my emotions.

When I am done writing I feel exhausted

as if I have poured myself into what has gone on the paper,

the heart that has gone into the story empties me of my energy and fills me

with my soul.

It is a pleasant exhaustion. The kind you feel,

after working on your flower garden on a summer’s day.

Pleasantly used. In need of time to repair and revamp yourself.

That’s what writing is.

A form of love.

Of giving yourself away, not for anything in return

but purely for the pleasure and perusal of another.