This is just a piece from something I was writing earlier today. I don’t know where this will be placed and I’m not sure where I’m going with this. But here, out of the shadows, made for anyone to see, is just a tiny little piece of my daydreams.
This is not our reality, of course. No. This is more of a diluted reality. One in which poetry is tangible and colors are felt. In my own opinion, colors should very well be felt instead of just stared at as if they mean nothing at all. Colors are an important part of life. Without colors, how would we express ourselves and our emotions in a vibrant way? What if everything was in black and white? I would think life would be drab and indeed a bore. But, if we never knew color at all then what would we feel about it? So many questions to be pondered but let’s just lie about and enjoy the scenery, shall we?
There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.
-Ernest Hemingway
A Traveling Mist 