Writing isn’t reality. It’s a dream, a far-flung wish to the heavens, a beck and call from the writers of the world to the origin of all asking for the most sacred of gifts — that of creation. 

For in its purest form, that is the essence of writing. It’s the spark of life and flash of meaning coursing through the universe itself from which we writers are given our purpose.

To be the bestowers of knowledge and storytellers of truth, the proclaimers of triumph and tragedy through whim and turn, the forgers of worlds from ink and life by thought, all on pages of nothing.

And it is here, through painted words upon the celestial canvas, that we are granted yet another of the hallowed gifts — immortality.

For writing is eternal.

It is legacy.

It is divine.