What we… writers, poets, and all other creatures that thrive not on the green stashed in a pocket, not so much as the azure smeared on a hand… as a collective, seek is not a sense of pride in our work or an awareness of the immensity, no matter how shallow or deep, of the creases our quills carve on the sheet or a pity from a kind stranger for our fingers bathed in ink; forever, but the way our words can make the bravest of men tremble for we can walk them through their worst nightmares put in words, & by a stranger, nonetheless.. or how our lines could spark off a will to live in a person who’s convinced oneself of suicide because one would then know that one isn’t alone and there be others who’ve made it.. or how the placement of a comma could make someone’s heart skip a beat and how a period disguised as a semicolon could break a heart, or worse, or maybe in the ways how we could make the most outlandishly cheap-thrills give the reader goosebumps in the sultriest summer nights and how we could make eyes well up with warmth in the coldest of winter’s sunrises when we had managed to keep our readers awake for the fourth night in a row as our work kept making new sense each time it was read, only adding more sense to the previous one.. The way we could make any pair of eyes dance to the tunes of our only arsenal, the alphabet.. or maybe just in the way we hide the most intimate love letters for just one person to have them make sense to but hand it out to the entire world, challenging it to comprehend the sense we actually intend and not the one that it was masked to be.
That be worth seeking and that, only.


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