The Writer’s Plague

Nearly every literate individual from the most mundane of citizens to the highest of scholars possesses the ability to write. A select few, however, feel the necessity to write; to articulate their most intimate thoughts and precious memories through the use of the purest, most simplistic form of mediums: words. It’s something very few understand and even less experience.

A true writer needs no paper, no pen to be considered such. He or she doesn’t require the use of a computer or access to a dictionary to be deemed acceptable. Words are words, regardless of their origin. Who’s to claim a degrading statement on the current political status of a world power found on the side of a building is any less beautiful than the work of a world renowned poet whose works have weathered centuries of critique? The beauty is not found in the content, but rather in the intent. Writing is passion and some of the greatest passion can be found in some of the most unexpected places.

It is the select few that recognize this passion, this flair of energy, sacrosanct to those who wield a pen not as a utensil but as an instrument of power. It’s a well that remains untapped by most, idly remaining silent and utterly still. It is not until the energy of this well is released and its power siphoned that one can truly experience not only the thrill, but the ecstasy that one can obtain through writing.

It’s an incurable addiction that plagues those who see the power in writing, its sweet kiss undeniably poisonous but undoubtedly seductive. It entices, whispers in its lustful way, to those who are fortunate enough to hear it. It is only those who listen, however, that know the necessity to write.

 

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