My Friend, This Is Who I Am

My dear friend, you ask me why I write to you instead of texting or emailing you. You ask me why I write stories by hand, and then spend hours reading when I can just as well talk, text, sleep, exercise, play, or whatever else you can think of. You ask why I am a writer and a reader, not a socialist and an athlete. You ask one simple question, but you never expect an answer. You expect me to change because you ask me to, not because God is changing me. You expect me to fit into your "normal". And the answer to your question simple. I don't want to.

It is good to feel comforting pages, a steady pen, and a creativity that is bound by our imagination. I sigh, loving the feeling of writing to my hearts content. My soul sings with joy at such a simple task, one that is loathed by many around the world. But writing is a joyous art, one where there is only paper and ink, yet people fall in love, make friends, form alliances, start wars, enrage enemies, and get so wrapped up in a book that they forget it isn't real. Instead of imagining things, they become reality. Places, people, things, actions, thoughts, feelings; they become real. And when a book ends, we weep for those we lost, rejoice for those who survived, and at the conclusion of every story, no one, reader, writer, or character is left unchanged. And that, my friend, is the most beautiful art in the world.