Writing is like breathing. When I capture an emotion on paper, it is as if my soul is speaking non-verbalized conjectures, which have been aching for expression. If I became paralyzed and lost the ability to write, I would find a way to tap through Morse code to convey my feelings. If I have the choice to write a letter versus a call on the telephone, my choice is always the written response. In writing, I can capture the nuances of an emotion before it escapes my lips uncensored. Re-writing is possible, as opposed to groping for the spoken words once they have evaporated after landing on listener’s ears. Printed words are immortal, but the voice itself is silenced by the grip of the grave.
Humanities’ obsession with life extension prods us to discover avenues to encapsulate our thoughts for future preservation. Various mediums exist for just this purpose. YouTube features the visual aspect. Songs capture the vocalist’s melodic creations. Podcasts record the lecturer’s wisdom. Personal bias overshadows my comments, as I view these methods to be infants dependent upon technology for sustenance. Writing last throughout the ages as our race’s primary mode of communication of history present, past, and future.
Delving into the imprisoned imagination tainted by the shallowness of mass media, I can unlock the dormant fantasies. Fiction allows for endless possibilities only restricted by the author’s lack of passion for transcribing. Elements of plots play through the mind like a country fiddler in the secluded barn loft. Connecting with the intended reader through a masterful collection of words – ah! Art revealed in its purest form, as rudimentary as our forefather’s retelling of history. Scribes isolated in the caves of Judea lacked invitations to the modern wine-tastings, yet their dedication touches our lives through precious transcriptions. To write is to live, both in the present and the future.