A trip is taken on a insane bus ride and that trip hit many potholes, rocks, and nails along the way, but there are smooth spots which are pillows to rest upon. More so than the cotton beneath my scalp. I rarely gaze out the window because I want the revving of the engine, the smoothness of the ride to lull me to new worlds.
And in those new worlds things aren’t always what they seem. Black isn’t really black. The taste of the air has sweet flavor. The weather fits like a second skin. Up is not up anymore. Animals talk. Insects become upright villains or heroes, equipped for battle. Earth is not the pale white and ocean blue- it is red as iron and Hope becomes a wielding weapon similar to a Samurai’s sword.
Boys are no longer boys but men; girls are women. Babies talk and they are no longer born but ARE. Stories are no longer read or heard but felt.
There is no beginning or end, just always was.
There is no longer YOU and I, but we- EXIST.
This is what stories are made of.
Words penned by gods of imagination.
Writing is such a special part of me. Through writing I can become the protagonist, antagonist, or just a passerby. As the reader, you would never know which I identify with. It could be none, all or some. Everyday, writing becomes a balm for the scars inside of me and they heal me because I can be that princess, or that warrior, or that massive ant with a black battle shell and feelers sharp as knives.
You can be anything when you write.
Have you read or written anything that made you soar today?