A couple of days ago, I started writing a collaborative story with my friend, and since then I haven’t really stopped.
Before then, I hadn’t written a word in months.
It’s something about seeing those words on the screen or paper, I think, the miracle of writing, of words, which means that they continue to spill out. Of stories, just waiting to be told: of lives waiting to be discovered.
Isn’t it incredible what writing can do to a person, or society? Writing can change the world in just a few, small, delicate words. And isn’t it incredible that we’re allowed the privilege of being able to practice the art of such a wonderful entity?
I, for one, think that it is. And I, for one, am fucking terrified of it. And I, for one, will keep writing until all the stories are in me are told. And I, for one, hope that that’ll be never.