writing. write. wright. right.

Writing, more than any other form of expression, seems to me the ultimate way in which we bare our souls to the world. The process of getting your thoughts on paper, wrestling furiously with a keyboard or fountain pen until you get it just right, attempting to translate the maelstrom of brainwaves buzzing between the folds of your brain into something tangible, all stand as evidence to the battle that is raging constantly in your mind. A battle, whose scar tissue you display to the world, hoping it won’t flinch or turn away, won’t exploit you in your moment of utmost vulnerability; that it might instead, like yourself, find beauty in each painful coil, as twisted as the heart which was wrung for each letter on the page; that it will understand residual silver lines to be a remnants of the strips of yourself you have threaded, woven, embedded into the page; that it might trace the lines to find that by laying out your thoughts, you have hoped you might be able to see your soul for what it is. For what it could be.