Calling the writing angel

Calling the writing angel My sanctuary is the world of imagination that bleeds me through the boring life that we witness everyday. I crave to write like men crave to smoke that next toxic cigarette. My fingers crave to release words like gray smoke that floats into the air. I yearn every hour to create out of nothing a place where my mind can be truly safe from the pains of everyday.   Traces of words flash through like lightning jolting me away as I hand a slip of green paper back to a lady. Her change naturally given back correctly without a second thought. But the words of splitting glass, and horror echo as if calling me to the unknown. Itching like a desire of need courses through me. I wonder if sex is often as stimulating to the brain as my desire to conjure up magic with words?   I weave worlds of adventure as people encounter the world that is so not so kind as we see it. The world is beautifully cruel like the dying stars in the sky. Did you know a star dies every second but because it is so far away from our view we never see its light go out till years later? I find this a beautifully cruel creation. Stars light our sky even as they die. I wonder if the stars we see are really stars or a creation like a dome that we are stuck around. My body craves the sanctuary of words just as much as it craves being ravaged by a man’s strong hands. I can’t explain the worlds within my head that wish to speak, but I can keep the beasts at bay by at least trying to form stories on blank pages. I want to spill words about an elf who enters the modern human world and is cursed to live without the one essence that makes her breath. I’m yearning to create a tragic ending where a character commits suicide for her kingdom. My words want to spill truths about the human brain, and it’s ability to form compassion or anger.   This addiction like a drug pains me as words can not be the only substance allowing me to make such worlds. I believe our world is beautifully cruel. We love it so much that we destroy our own land. We love it so much that we slaughter one another without a care. We love it so much that we forget to give each other a hug before watching that same loved one plunge into death. I say that writing is a calling but it is my sanctuary to understand the world. If I can’t breath standing still watching tragedies happen, then I sure as hell can write about them pondering the human minds sanity. I am a writer. I am bound by nature to observe the world, to be apart of the world, and to deduct from it the material to create. This is my philosophy. This is my sanctuary.