“I want to write it artfully,” he spoke, genuine and sincere. “I want to write it as a beauty, in a romance and as love, beyond and more than the littleness of lust. It’s so much more—and that’s the Spirit I seek to share.
Man needs romance to live inspired. Man needs beauty to be awed and struck and moved. Where is that in the modern day? It’s all material and cheap.
I want to write of the heart, Creation that comes from Love—that, in its simplest, is all that sustains and propagates mankind in generation and further life. Maybe my words will inspire that, or at least share ideal of what such love should be.
Mankind is dying, regressing, failing in the collective in absorption of individual-seek of present and now and material ease at death of a living future.
My Creation days are done, but maybe—by art—I might move and inspire where I, myself, have failed.”
She listened, moved and affected. She never shared the way his words and stories touched and, yet, she believed he knew. In write and tell of his ideals, they became in same her own—Creation-Love, or what such love should be.
She dreamt in garden, in pasture fields, and light-fall through evening trees. She dreamt the places. She dreamt the ways—what such ideal of love should be; and she believed.
She never said, and still she saved, but spoke words that she could find. “Keep writing…” the first she found, “keep writing and sharing and giving of beauty. The world needs more of that…I need more of that…We all do—ideals and romance and spirit-love; Creation and art and all that it is…Keep writing,” she spoke again. “We all need something beautiful in which to believe.”
He would.