And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
– William Shakespeare
They say that writers are trapped, locked up in their own worlds. They say that artists are flying high in a different dimension, submerged in the incense of smoking opium and barbiturates. Is that really so I dare not claim.
However, I shall not deny that there is much truth in it. There is a characteristic of beauty in a mind left alone to wander about and linger on through the passages of conciousness.
One that is highly valued in a moment of solitude. No, we are not smokers of weed and nicotine, puffing wisps of fantasies into the crisp air. These are really periods of self-expression; of discovering oneself in a duty of such eloquence. Times where thoughts – our thoughts – are heard, at least to an eager audience. Times when we speak, hoping that the Outsiders take notice as we crawl out the Dream Tunnel, arms and legs outstretched like that of the spiders.
There shall be epochs where the world seems to crumble down in dusty ashes, only to arise from within a King so mighty.
We are the Dream Weavers, weaving ideas and connecting missing links together in hopes of patching up for a better world. We are the Sowers of the Seed, silently praying that the flower that blossoms out shall be blessed with showers of love, joy, and happiness.
There goes. Now what am I writing about?
PS: Anyway, it is about my birthday, it’s MY BIRTHDAY – so I got to spend my money. Taylor Swift needs to come up with a new hit titled Twenty-Three. =)