Writing becomes easier when I have the picture of what to pen down in my imagination, words flow till I become exhausted. never have I needed much deliberation on what to write, it has always been one of the only way I could express my self, speak my truth in which ever way I see fit. it could mean a lot of things to people but to me writing is medicinal, it gives me a sense of purpose, it gives my existence a meaning. A million thought flows through my mind daily about the world of reality and fantasy, A battle of self trying to set boundaries between this two has never been more difficult.
Through my writings I live a life I was never privileged to have, it grants me a visa to travel through multi dimensions in my imagination without the worries of a traveling bag or expenses, everything all sorted like a sponsored trip. life has never been better, holding unto the world of my imaginations hoping it will eventually merge with my reality. probably the tales they tell about the power of the mind that occurs when our admirations reach out to the heavens and our wishes becomes granted could occur to me but it never did.
The endless journey never ends, as i embark on a writing journey as suggested by my imagination. it seems all I could do is write which has no effect on the world of reality, the real world where my physical state exist. I heard pen is mightier than the sword, it seems my pen has gotten blunt or probably the pen in question has nothing similar to mine.
How much effect does words have in reality, it is what the media have been fixated on for years, making a mockery of themselves. if we keep writing and speaking up will the world finally be better than yesterday? would they understand our admirations for a better world? a world considered a fantasy to many.
Having so much to tell, to speak the truth through words, like gospel of the apostles written in scrolls and scribe but the world has shifted. the truth no longer has value, if that is true, what value does my word hold then? the sole reason for my existence is no longer recognised. slowly becoming a pariah, shunned and ostracize by those who would go to any length to bury the truth and promote their words of hypocrisy.
I tried by best screaming with all my strength
has my truth goes down 10 feet below. o ye men of little Understanding what is the essence of living in a world were truth is no longer welcomed. chased like a rabbit back into my world of imaginations where the truth and I seek refuge, Lying in hiding from the world of men, that is where we both belong in the world of imagination where our presence is welcomed, how much longer do I have to stay here seems to be my only reason to worry.
though it might not matter, as long as my blunt pen could write, the legacy of my truth will live on in my writing till it goes across space and time, reaching a new breeds of men, a new set of generation. those who wouldn't mind seeking the truth, through the words of mine, they shall know how we once lived.
