He returned again to a writing of why from seasons and years before. In it, author wrote of following “poets whose writing makes me feel something” and he wondered: was he, had he ever been, one of these to her?
He did not know.
He held to ideal that he had been, and still remained, but ideal was mostly hope absent evidenced proofs, but such are many of life’s greatest truths—slow and reticent to reveal.
“Think of art.” and so he did. “…you most likely do not resonate with it all…but it is art nonetheless and there is an audience for everything.”
He liked the way it spoke—plain and simple truth it told.
“Creativity is how I share my soul with the world and without it I’m not ok.” He liked that too and knew, for him, that such was true.
Simple inspiration from words read many times, he wrote and dreamed again—creating from came to him.
He wrote.
He dreamed.
He gave—whether audience would or would never see.
It made him happy. That was his why.
