There is a place near the clouds, near a dream, near love. A place where blind cupid learns archery and the poets learn their rhymes. A place that knows neither the sorrow of yesterday nor the worry of tomorrow. Today is all that there is.
Will you go with me then, if I take your hand?
I have drowned in sweet romance all summer long. In the pages of novels and in the stacked yellowing letters. Then summer flew past me Continue reading →
Is it necessary for an artist to know why he paints, or a ballerina to know why she is possessed by a passion to ballet? Need a nightingale know why she serenades the sleeping world or the moon understand why he is enraptured by the blue earth, around which he revolves day and night, yet never dares to embrace her for the fear they will collide and die?
There is no want in them to fathom the mystery of those passions that are beyond comprehension.
Then must a lowly writer such as I question why I write?
I know not.
And yet, when the night is starless and witchy, when all is lonesome like a solitary wolf weeping under the moon, when the world is so silent that I can hear the pencil moving against paper, I seek answers…
…to understand why of all the noble trades there are, of the endless streams of possibilities, I picked up the quill and chose to be a writer.