Small scraps

Small scraps of paper lay strewn across my desk each a thought dismissed. A story started but no end, a poem without love. It goes this way sometimes, the words trying to join together and find some meaning. Then there are the times when words barely have a chance as they spue out in a waterfall of sentences and something worth telling.

   The soft glow of a candle lights my words as they dance across the pages to a beautiful melody. It becomes a place of make-believe where words collide with words and paragraphs jump out at your hungry eyes filling you with strange and marvelous tales.

   Oh and the characters who are born in front of me running and skipping across the pages each growing with every passing chapter. Some live while others die but each buried deep in my mind for all eternity.

   Writing is a circus, a broadway show, or a school musical. It is the impossible becoming so, and it is beauty, love, and sorrow all wrapped up in my mind shouting to be set free. Writing is laughter and surprises with twists and turns that carry you away and even into sleep. And when you awake you realize it wasn’t a dream but a book that lays open on your blanket.

   To write is the most magical, thrilling thing a person could ever do and for those of you who never put pen to paper, well, try it sometime. Open your mind and dream, imagine, and dream.

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