I imagine the land of literature in the most vivid sense. A place where “its” and “thes” frolic freely. Where the, I before E except after C rule doesn't apply, and a thief can hold hands with a protein without any judgements. A world where syntax and grammatical structures release their iron clad claws and let run on sentences be run on sentences.
However, even in this mystical playground, some words just tend to gravitate toward each other. Like lovers holding hands, they stroll down the lane lost in each others gaze. Everything is right between them. There is no awkward pause nor will there be any half step. In unison they sway underneath the pink willow tree, lips locked in tight embrace. To their right below the guava tree, the hard husk of a mollusk breaks.
I wish writing were always this easy. Sometimes great inspiration can hit and next thing you know, you are scratching the blank canvas in a frenzied state because your brain is moving much faster than your fingers could hope to keep up. Other times, its anger. Slamming fists onto porcelain keyboards throwing fractals of glass into the air.
Its a tumultuous relationship which is satiated only by the occasional piece of work that draws a smile onto a face. I hope one day to be such a skilled writer. Turning air into water within one succinct sentence. Its a long painful road that I don’t suppose ever ends, but goddamn is it ever fun.
"The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry."