Warring with the cold, my fingers never cease from pressing the keys, each black line and curve a letter, a word.
Words that few read, but read they are, and what have they to conceive within the mind, the heart, of the reader?
I hope, I pray, I aspire to inspire. You are my audience, I am the writer.
Reading from screens that illuminate your faces, you read the lines and curves, the words of a writer.
Not only looking, but hearing, listening; I hope, I pray, I aspire...
I find that words do more than inform. Words are like colors, all the colors and more.
They are alive in themselves, breathing either breaths of life or the terror of hell. But it is not the choice of the reader alone, whether of the two are they.
As a writer, I writer to inspire. It is my want; my need; my obligatory. You, dear readers, are reading the words of a writer, one whose life has yet to prove worthy of life and deserving of love.
Be blessed by these words, dear, dear readers. While you read, I hope, I pray. As a writer, I aspire to inspire.
Words that few read, but read they are, and what have they to conceive within the mind, the heart, of the reader?
I hope, I pray, I aspire to inspire. You are my audience, I am the writer.
Reading from screens that illuminate your faces, you read the lines and curves, the words of a writer.
Not only looking, but hearing, listening; I hope, I pray, I aspire...
I find that words do more than inform. Words are like colors, all the colors and more.
They are alive in themselves, breathing either breaths of life or the terror of hell. But it is not the choice of the reader alone, whether of the two are they.
As a writer, I writer to inspire. It is my want; my need; my obligatory. You, dear readers, are reading the words of a writer, one whose life has yet to prove worthy of life and deserving of love.
Be blessed by these words, dear, dear readers. While you read, I hope, I pray. As a writer, I aspire to inspire.