Life

To write is to breathe life to a page, to create sensations and emotions, worlds and oblivion in a single pen stroke, the blink of a cursor. I have always held so much respect for writers growing up. But now that I myself am counted amongst the writhing population of amateur writers I find that my value in my own scratchings has reduced to the occasional blip of satisfaction but mainly to simply indifference.

I survey my work as a non-entity, an automaton. It holds no breath or spark in my eyes. The characters don't gambol through the pages or leap out to astound; they simply are.
I want them to twitch and sparkle, write epic sonnets and perform them to adoring crowds, to capture and entrance rather than speak and move when told like lethargic marionettes.

I am a writer, an artist; if only a mediocre one, and as such my creations, my expressions of self and muse should be phenomenons. They are not.
With time and maturity they may sprout wings and soar from my pen but as it is I will continue as a mediocre puppeteer until that day arrives.