It is about time I get my head out of my rear, lift it up high, and give the world the smile its been missing all these years.
It is time for me to write, to do what I have been avoiding for years, to do what I was meant to do and made for doing. It is time for me to write, until the ink in my veins run dry and the blood in my pen runs out, until my fingers bleed from hitting the broken keys of a typewriter that is older than myself, until there are no words left in this world that I have not wrote.
It is time for me to write.
I will write of adventures I cannot remember and of dreams I never had, I want to write about things I have seen and the ones that I never wanted to, the ones I have wanted to and the ones I have wanted to never want to. I will write for myself, of myself, to myself, for you to read, for you to re read, for you, for him, her and for them, for the world to turn page after page. I will write for love, those who have, those who want to and those who forgot how to. I will break hearts and heal them, then with words I will steal and seal them. I will write to hate, he and I shall debate.
I will and I want to write.
Write like it has never been done or can never be done again. Write on paper, complaining about the conservation of trees, write on walls, grumbling about the grotesque ghetto graffiti, write on faces simply because you can not write on spaces, write about places, from which you remember faces.
