Let me indulge you with a tale. Of monsters and mayhem. Of knights and dragons. Of all of the dreams that are both possible and impossible. Of angels and demons. Battling between a heart of a mortal.
A tale of life. A never ending story. Of courage and bravery. Of honor and dignity. Of wickedness and cruelty. Of poems and beauty. Expressed in a few paragraphs. Yielding a canvas of elegancy.
A warrior can drew his blade. An artist can strikes his brush. A carpenter can hammers his wood. A gardener can trims his hedge. But a writer. A writer can fashion a blade. A writer can paint an art. A writer can create masterpieces. A writer can construct an Eden. A writer can type.
In his typing is a world. A world of his doing. A world that he fabricate just from a combination of letters. A world within his mind. Expressed onto pages. Imprinted to his readers. And suddenly they are in his world.
In his mind, they see a garden. With hills reaching the blue sky. With tall grasses swarming the field. And a lonesome tree stood magnificently in the center of it all. Providing shade for the children playing underneath.
They see the children hopping around the tree. Singing merry songs. And they hear these merry songs. And the children’s laughter fill the air. And the wind breezing through the field, and they feel the wind on their skin. Blowing gently on their face.
These are what writers could do. A writer could produce sound in silence without any vibration. A writer could create colors out of black and white. A writer could pull his reader into his world within only one page.
A writer can make you believe.
