I wrote many words, meaningless to many, held dear by few. But it is within those few that live the thirst for that certain answer that their mind had been hinging on. To be able to supply that answer, like delivering a small sample of divine epiphany is worth more than a mere message that reaches many but fails to absorb indefinitely into the soul. The abstract and jagged to many are the clear and serrated piece that may complete one of the pondered puzzles to which we struggle with in our lives. The mind may hide, erase or bluntly forget but the soul always remembers.
To struggle with in the mind is to live on and to progress although it aches as any other growing pain. A bit of missing knowledge handed forth is the equivalent to mother’s warm hands rubbing those growth pains out of your childhood legs. So teachers, teach and writers, write. This is a step that follows the ground where one sits idle moving only to the masters whip within the mind that orders action, recognition, for if refused the possible loss of self leaves that person in regret of their self defiance. Doubt sets in though at this step, worrying of the relevance each sentence has to others, forgetting why you picked up the pen in the first place.
So the third step awaits as you realize this and continue to write at your whim, at your pace and with out the oppression of fear. Where does it all take you from there is the final question which may not be answered for a time after death as far as your earthbound name is concerned. Yet, there is an unlimited wisdom one finds for them selves when they become literary fencers. This wisdom may overflow to others, but even if it does not someone has learned.
