as a writer I sometimes contemplate the why I write

I think we writers... write. and with great intentions... we write a lot in the hopes that... one day one day... we will take that step... through the shadows... where fear lingers... and not be consumed by its grasp. Oh our cupboards so filled with life our dreams our hopes our silly lines those unfinished rhymes that captivated us so their lives uncovered... yet not quite explored the adventures found upon a sting of yarn only two inches long yet still holding on to life its threads unraveling screaming for someone... anyone to hear. i’m alive! please hear me! oh how can this be? does no one see me? just as the last bit of unraveling yarn is about to fade into the shadows of forgot the writer is awakened by the faint whispers lingering on the air Ever so gently gathering all its bits and specks carefully breathing life where death stood at the door in the distance faintly hearing Poes bird whisper... never more. the writer laughs and calls out NOT THIS TIME! As the words flow onto the paper the cry from that string of yarn is breathed life the Shadows of Forgot did not win this battle this time Remember When stood strong and proud Inspiration leads us down paths sometimes well traveled where we find familiar sights and sounds other times our path is unclear filled with anticipation and wonder which path will hold strong to be first for this day.. I wonder I think we writers... write. and with great intentions... we write a lot in the hopes that... one day one day... we will take that step... through the shadows... where fear lingers... and not be consumed by its grasp. MelInda Worland sept 13 2010