Have you ever wanted to write to the end of time, but lost yourself in an endless loop, where words just wouldn’t come to you? The best of your words lie hidden on that fine line that separates your memories from your consciousness.
And in the quietness of the night, when these words echo in the halls of your mind, you listen to them, eyes closed. You try to write them but can’t.
You realise that words don’t come to a writer. A writer weaves them. You lure them into the ink and let them flow. It is only then, that those hidden words will begin to pour out. One by one, envious of your unfinished tale.
I write for the day when I can lure those words into my pen. Because none but they can write me my sole masterpiece.