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I can tell you that there is nothing more horrifying than staring at a blank piece of paper. There is nothing more terrifyingly horrible than thinking "where to begin, where to begin". I can safely reassure everyone who every dreams of being a writer that it is all for naught. You spend countless days like the hopeless romantic you are, staring at ceilings and wandering from "hipster" coffee shop to "indie" teahouse thinking: "I'm a failure, I don't deserve to write."

There is that moment when you question why you even started in the first place. Oh, undoubtedly you were good at first, probably even brilliant. Praised for your profound knowledge and mastery of the English language, rewarded for your ability to effortlessly weave and string the words together in ways that seemed to be just like magic.

There is nothing magic about it. All you are is allowing words, words that you cannot control, to move through you and onto the page so someone else might read them and allow themselves to be taken by the spirit that has consumed you. And that is what writing does. It allows you to communicate all those thoughts, which you cannot possibly hope to express in real life…

…which is depressing.

Maybe that's why I am a writer. Because I cannot hope to express myself in reality, therefore I substitute reality with something that I have created, something that I am in complete control of, something that is mine and mine alone. But is it? What is this world, but an idea from someone else's brain? What is this world but a thought scribbled down on an errant notepad and left behind to be withered by rain and fate and life until nothing more remains but the faintest scrap of an idea long forgotten?

I write because I need to. I write because I have no other passion that consumes me more. I write because I long to express myself in ways that I normally can't. I can't fathom this world like most people. The general population seems capable of coping with the world around us, passing through each day of their lives with nary a thought against it or a comprehension of why. I am merely an observer, sharing my experiences with the world, with you. And this is what I have seen.

I have seen the beginning of all beginnings. The very first moment a child opens its eyes. Their look of wonder as they gaze upon this bright and shining world for the first time. The sheer joy and unadulterated love upon a mother's face as she cradles her newborn babe in her arms, whispering, "I'll never let you go. I'll never let you go."

I have seen misfortune fall upon the child, taunted and teased, foolish, sophomoric taunts: "Gross, she's got cooties!" "You're dumb!" all the like and such that serve to put the child in its proper place but succeed only in causing realization that he or she is above such taunts and refuses to be upset by them. The scraped knees and bruised knuckles of the near future prove otherwise, but the scolding that will follow is worth the instant satisfaction and gratification of seeing the ridiculer's eyes burst into hot scalding tears of shame.

I have seen the blossoming of young love; the first hands clutched tightly together, the rosy pink blushes upon fair maid's cheeks as the gallant suitor offers a flower as a sign of his undying love. Love undying is something dabbled by all romantics and while he claims it to be truth now, she will end up with a broken heart and a fair comprehension of boys and their inner workings.

I have seen the hours that the student keeps, working hard at his books. Missing nothing, he scribbles a note, a reminder, a thought, something that no doubt will be long forgotten by tomorrow's exam and he continues to read. The stress is palpable, everything rides on this, and his future rests on this key, pivotal moment.

I have seen the children grow taller and stronger, more capable. They throw their graduation caps in the air with such determination, a jubilant gesture that screams: "At last, I'm free!" Perhaps scared of what lies ahead, it all means nothing for they have triumphed over years of torturous struggles only to face the many that lie ahead.

I have seen the anger and betrayal, as someone's heart is broken for what may seem to be the thousandth time. As the door slams behind and the tears begin to well, they feel the walls of life caving in upon them. Nothing remains and nothing will be the same. A bottomless pit of despair has opened wide and swallowed them whole and the fear sits in their chest: Will I ever make it out? Yet in their heart lies a seed of hope planted during times of good fortune and great happiness that has time enough to sprout again.

I have seen white, angelic white, bridal white as she walks down the aisle, clutching tight to her father's arm. Nervous, no doubt, but her confident steps betray nothing. A dream, perhaps, but she is awake at last and Prince Charming is standing at the altar, perfect. All of it, worth every heartbreak she suffered.

I have seen memories disappear and lives become empty with the death of a loved one. Oh, how quickly does life fade away, leaving the world seemingly black and white and without color.

I have seen broken lamps and empty homes filled with regret. I have seen warm embraces and satin sheets, now gone cold. I have seen sorrow and strife. I have seen compassion and love. I have seen death. I have seen life.

And why, you may ask, dear reader of mine, why do I choose to tell you all this? Why do you care about what I have seen? The ramblings of a deranged author mean nothing to you. And they mean nothing to most people.

But to one person out there, my ramblings make sense. They understand, are inspired, feel the passion and the desire to see what I have seen, to know what I have known.

Old souls, some people call them. People with otherworldly knowledge on their hands, people who seem as if they have lived one life already and know what is to come, know how to cope with this life for they have seen one pass by already. People like that have been touched by something.

Writers, like me have been touched by something. Singers and dancers, lawyers and bankers, doctors and teachers, mothers and fathers, philosophers and artists; they all have been touched by something. They all have been inspired, been lifted from their ordinary lives and been shown a world full of wonder and beauty unparalleled by anything that our own reality can hold.



They have been shown the magic of a single moment.