I want to write. I want the words to flow from my hands onto a page like the pouring of milk into a glass and I want someone else to drink up those words and feel saitiated and satisfied and nourished. I want to feel that magical and almost intangible feeling of words aligning exactly and fluently with thoughts and ideas that are conjured up from elsewhere first and then drift into practice, onto a hard page; it happens so rarely that when it does, the feeling is akin to falling in love.

I want that special feeling of writing setting me free; from the duldrums of reality, from the chainlink fence of conventional daily life, and into the world where imagination, creativity and finding a ‘nook’ in which to work and thrive, are a part of a new and enduring life, that of an ‘artist’.

I want to set a shining example that writing and artistry can lead to success, the same way the ability to create and/or solve math problems might be…

… I have my fingers desperately and tightly crossed.

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