Writing is the art of playing with words. Sometimes you just pick one and start rolling it around in your head, you touch it to your tongue, you swish the savor of it over your taste buds, you listen intently to the rhythm and you begin to march to the beat. You contemplate its meaning and play with the texture until a thought or story comes out through your fingers. Sometimes that is not the case. Sometimes you just start typing because your head has nothing in it but your fingers want to move, so you begin the process of playing with words, attempting to make them into an intelligent sentence.

The second is the case today. My fingers are moving and my brain is wandering.  So my fingers dance, and take the lead with my brain following behind trying to place order to the chaos emerging from my fingers. The dance has begun with beat of the keyboard and the melody of the wind whistling through the words, as they spring onto the paper. The words sway in the branches as they align themselves into sentences and paragraphs. Ordering other words into place, words begin to form a rhythm that marches each word towards meaning and purpose.

Words often emerge from deep within the writer. Words that had no meaning, or color before springing onto the paper. These words sooth and heal the author as they brush past her fingers. They scratch an itch that is unreachable. Words paint a once drab white piece of paper with pieces of the writer’s soul. Creating a mosaic of thought and spirit, words edge close to each other bumping into like shapes, matching colors, and tastes, and emerging with a beauty all their own.

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