We, the Writers

I shot an arrow into the air, and where it lands, I do not care. ~~~~~~~~~~~ Do not ask us why we feel this compulsion, this addiction, this need, to distill emotions to paper with pen. We search for the answers, to the mysteries of life. These unanswered questions. They haunt our minds. They taunt our souls. Can all the answers ever be had, I think not, but stop us, they can't. for we shall still seek, until the end. Able to sort feelings and emotions for the less gifted. making sense of it all, in ways they never could. There is a price to pay for this gift. To taste of pain and suffering, so clearly. sadness and sorrow, so strongly. But there are rewards as well. Knowing as much of joy and happiness, beauty and love, God's gift of life, and all that we see. The reward of our ability to lend a helping hand, to those in need. In need of the answers, the answers we seek, the answers we provide. So many styles we convey, so many roads we travel, to this destiny. This one's for you, and you, and you, and you, friends one and all, a brotherhood transcending time and space. A rare breed are we, so desperately needed by this world. We, the writers, givers of the true. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I shot a fire arrow into the Hindenburg, Woops! Written June 18th, 1996 © on Oct 08 2001 05:49 AM PST   0 • 10