As I sit her unraveled in my own thoughts, my hands crave for pen and paper. Why? I don’t know. I never did and probably never will; an explicable urge to decorate a piece of paper with random lines of ink that gradually transform into coherent words; words that will either be read and cherished, or ignored and forgotten. And, still I find no explanation. Until now.Reading Clive Barker’s book ‘Sacrament’, I cam across these lines:
“I am a man, and men are animals who tell stories. This is a gift from God, who spoke our species into being, but left the end of our story untold. That mystery is troubling to us. How could it be otherwise? Without the final part, we think, how are we to make sense of all that went before; which to say, our lives?So we make stories of our own, in fevered and envious imitation of our Maker, hoping that we’ll tell, by chance, what God left untold. And finishing our tale, come to understand why we were born.”
So, I realized the simple and blatant truth. I am a writer. I am a storyteller, and like others, we will spin tales and weave realms of imagination filled with hidden secrets and untold truths. We will unravel a world you only experience in dreams and soon forget while you open your eyes to the first lights of the morning. We are slaves to our pens, and the paper is our tapestry. If you allow us, we’ll dazzle your eyes in a painting of words, and, in time, lock you in a cage of melodic sentences forming a foundation of paragraphs that will soothe you, and give you an experience you will never forget.
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