Like Bright Scratches of Paint
I sit here in my room with my hands covered in the dark and dripping ink of my fountain pen, like the bloodied murderous hands of a lunatic. Scrawling of words fall to the page below, like the bright scratches of transferred paint left on a dark-colored sports car, and the words that define us, describe us, and uplift us take the time to dance together in various harmonious melodies.
They trip out of my head through my hands and end up in the minds of those willing to receive their wondrous power, and in doing so, I realize that the words here on this page are also filled with amazing power that have stopped those, who are reading this now from whatever they were doing before, and kept their attention long enough to finish listening to what I have to say.
Because of this, I feel as though these writers with their leaky pens and worn keyboards hold some sort of major influence on the world—although secretly of course, because everyone is busy wrapped up in the story on the page, which somehow became part of the audience’s thoughts, to remember that the writers were the ones who created it.
Upon this knowledge that I have obtained, however, I realized that I have a lot more to learn in this world from all the knowledge and experience that I have attained in these years that I have lived on this earth, and I know this because I will never stop learning or writing it all down to help me make sense of it all, like the bright scratches of transferred paint left on a dark-colored sports car.