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you know, honestly, i don't know why i write. especially on a blog...it's one blog, one minuscule blog in an entire database of information called the interweb. i don't know why i bother. it just doubles the fact that i am one person in a world of other people and my thoughts are also just one minuscule cluster of opinions. no one cares. and if they care to read just one sentence, that sentence will dissolve from their memory the moment they leave my blog page. i am forgotten, as the people i meet on the streets every day. i see someone different every single day yet i cannot remember any one of their faces. and i am sure i will never meet them again.
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If I was a writer, I wouldn't mind staying up all night in my library, hidden from society but enveloped in a mirage of literary worlds. The shelves will be overflowing, breaking at the seams with words begging to be read and brought to life by the imagination. I'll be inspired, fed by the imaginary sphere of writers whose legacies went before me. I'll write and study and write some more of distant lands beyond the see-able universe, of a man who travels the dimensions and falls in love with Woman of the Wind, of a girl who can sing her heart's desires into being but mistakenly casts away her ability and searches the world over for it, of a whale who dreams of becoming a little mouse only to find how unsatisfactory it is to have to scurry on little limbs. And when I'm done with those, I'll write of normal things like rain on a tin roof, watermelon in a garden, and airplanes in the sky. There will be endless things to conjure up, there will always be more to say ...
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wendy found herself in the old shack. suddenly the wind picked up swinging the door wide open. bracing onto the old kitchen counter, wendy shielded her eyes from the flying dust. a violent gust pushed her over. after finding herself on the floor, the wind died down and the door quietly shut itself and wendy picked herself up to lean on a beautifully carved wooden chair. her eyes widened as she gazed around what seemed to be not a shack, but rather a beautiful and dreamy candy-shop. "why young lady, what are you doing down there?" an old woman, with a basket hung on her arm, reached down to help wendy to her feet. "i...i'm not sure, really.." wendy stuttered. "you might want to watch yourself now, the wind is coming in a little differently around here.." and if wendy were clear from the dust, she could have possibly seen a twinkle in the old woman's eyes. "what do you mean, ma'am?" wendy asked as she straightened out her wrinkly...
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