On Writing

I had forgotten.

I had forgotten the extremity of its cruelty and tenderness. I had forgotten the excitement, the urgency, and excruciating, forehead-knotting intensity of writing soulful words on a blank paper.

I had forgotten the brutal vitality of a writer’s air, the magnificence of a sharp tip scarring the crisp surface of lined paper. The room at a standstill, but the inner mind finding its way through the nonstop noise like two bitter enemies falling into a rapt admiration of each other’s nobility and beauty.

I had forgotten.

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