The World To A Writer

To a writer

Every person is a fleshed-out novel –

Bound –

So that only the cover can be read of passer-bys:

In their salient characteristics, we read:

Wispy red hair and boyish face;

Or,

Sharp cheek bones and nasty scowl.
We crack the cover as we observe further,

Desperate to find the meat of these stories;

Finger the pages in conversation,

Hungry for the moments that resonate beyond the page;
But the deepest passages,

Even of oneself,

Are eternally shrouded,

So that we never quite understand each other,

Or the Author,

But catch glimpses of one another,

And Him –
Brilliant flashes of light in a deep fog

That keep us watching,

Fascinated,

Because there is always much more to life than can be observed,

But much less than can be imagined.

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