To write something…anything…
a dream so big, so bold,
and yet so fragile that self belief and doubt dries the ink before it hits the paper.

Why write, why paint with words…
words are meaningless, functional and drifting.
Dancing around truth,
carelessly playing with heart and mind.

And yet…
And yet…
Words weave tapestries of visions spun by the frailest silk thread,
unseen by mortal eyes.
Realms of beauty, pain, grace and sorrow…
such reckless magic that smiles the heart and soul.

Why is it so hard to begin, if words are meaningless,
if these tapestries of script are nought but fancies,
where everything and yet nothing has meaning?
Is it fear of a heart being seen,
fear of being empty,
fear of never being understood?

Fear – such a beautifully wretched companion,
the light always dimmed by your what ifs.

And yet my light and words persist,
flickering in the shadows.
So i begin.

I begin