The blur of Imagination

I hear the pencil which spews my emotions onto the lifeless paper and satisfies the clawing of attention in my brain which imitates the sound of passion, expression and devotion. I only live to write and my hand has its own heart beat which writes to the tune of life. The words which flow on my paper come alive, and soon begin to rise elegantly like an ensemble of dancers. Twirling, pirouetting, and leaping around my head in there sequined dresses, causing a colorful blur of imagination. Within this blur of beauty, similar to the blur of a million leopard lacewing butterflies, I see myself relieved and at peace, enjoying what the universe has bestowed for human pleasure. Writing has saved me from personal destruction, accompanied me when I was secluded in the nooks and crannies of my brain. Seldom with your thoughts can drive you to insanity and leave you broken. I am the graphite of a pencil which can only be written when in need of assurance. Gently use me but don’t break me. I can take away the pain but don’t hurt me. Use me. Love me for what I can become not for what I can do. Use me to answer the question which prolongs in your mind. But take your time, don’t waste me. I can’t bear to go dull and leave you lack lustered. Use me because writing is the air that fills your lungs and exudes the passion which you can inscribe on a piece of paper. Love using me. I hear the pencil which spews my emotions onto the lifeless paper and satisfies the clawing of attention in my brain which imitates the sound of passion, expression and devotion.