Originally posted September 15, 2009 at 3:59pm
Where do I begin? Maybe something along the lines of: “In time all things are forgotten. The Winds blow and cities crumble. Days turn to weeks, weeks to months, and months to years. Finally forming centuries which turn to an Age. Those who lived yesterday are forgotten tomorrow as the Winds of Time forever carry on. Yet if you could hear them they might speak of stories, of forgotten dreams.”
But then who am I to tell a story? You have to admit, though, that line is good. To continue, I do not write for money. I write to write, my motives are as simple as that. Being published just means someone somewhere thought you were good enough to have a book. See, I write for the passion of it. The thrill of a new adventure, seeping forth from my mind. A soothing rhyme that will stand the tests of time.
Or something like that, right? I am glad to see you didn’t just pass me by. I tell myself everyday that I, and all the rest of us, have a purpose. If only this was mine. Even if you sell me, discard me, or even give me away to just get rid of me, I will continue writing from the confines of my black fold out chair. Sitting cross-legged with my keyboard resting on my knees and the monitor sitting on what I’m pretty sure should be an end table.
Still I am glad. Glad to have been given the gift to put pen to paper and make art though these glyphs we all call letters. I hope you enjoy my book. Well, I better let you get started, huh? There is a world in every letter and you have yet to discover them.