Contrariwise…if it was so, it might be; and if it were so,
it would be but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.
In the ten months I have been here in the UAE, I have spent
the majority of my Saturday evenings writing. Sometimes it is a simple ramble
like this, other perhaps inspired by the weekly events that have occurred. Some
mould themselves around the people I meet. Some may be created from a deep
emotion stirred within me. They all have something in common; they are my
masterpiece. I may not as poetic as
Shakespeare or dramatic as Tolkien, but to me they are my prized possessions.
My life written on paper; they are words scrambled across the field of lines. Occasionally they make sense, the rest evolve
as an organised mess.
It is not a case of how I write, the techniques used, or the
formation of the words – it is what I write that matters most. I write what I
know. To me, nobody is a literary genius;
anyone can write. In the same breathe no-one can criticise the way you express
yourself. There is no right or wrong.
Every word you put into a sentence is unique. It is your snowflake. There
may be a moment in time were someone will be jealous or angry at your words, but
you will learn to deal with that.
Whether it is the pen scratching paper or your fingers
pressing the keys, the letters appear creating words that shape the sentences
to come. They shine for you. They show your strengths, your weaknesses – but more
importantly – your story. Your story is your own. No-one can speak any
different.
This is my story. I write because I can. It’s my form of
escapism (besides reading that is). I write whatever forms into my head. I
remember someone asking me back in December “Why do you write so much?”
Well if I were not to write, all the thoughts in my
head have nowhere to go. They need to be released in to the physical
world. Scratch that; I would actually
end up insane (if that were possible since I fell down the rabbit-hole a long
time ago).
Speaking of rabbit-holes, I think some people tonight have
fell down them and have yet to escape. Everyone seems to be wilder than usual.
With that in mind, this post shall take its’ leave and bid you farewell.
The further off from England the
nearer is to France –
Then turn not pale, beloved snail
but come and join the dance.
Will
you, wo’n’t you, will you, w’o’nt, will you join the dance?
Will
you, wo’n’t you, will you, w’o’nt, wont you join the dance?
