From the day I connected letters with sentences, I’ve been a writer. It’s as if putting a pen to paper were my hands first instinct. Writing has always made sense to me; it helps me centralize my thoughts, and realize what’s in my heart. Without exception, I find myself lost in the words I write. Right now, for example, it’s nearly three in the morning; the dead of night. Most of the world has gone to sleep, but not me, not yet. I have class early tomorrow morning, and yet I can’t rest until this has been written. When inspiration strikes like lightning, it’s as though there’s no speed my hand could move at that would be expeditious enough. There’s a real art to losing yourself. It’s a place of discovery and peace. Of stillness and tranquility. Even if you don’t pick up the pen, you’ll find it somewhere else. You’ll find it when the buzzer blares zero, and your team has the greater score. You’ll find singing the chorus to your favorite song. You’ll feel it in your soul, when you just can’t seem to stop laughing. And you’ll see it in the sun, as he slowly goes to sleep. Whatever “yours” may be, there’s beauty in it. There’s beauty in anything that ignites you. That consumes you in a way that won’t allow you to go to sleep, because it’s superior to your dreams. Mine is in the pilots seat of a blank page. What’s yours?
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