Writing is immortality. It is that flux between turning memories and fantasy into reality.
You get inspired, you fall in love with that feeling, you want to keep that spark alive, so you write. You write about what inspires you, you write about who inspires you. You write, and write, and write, until you realize the only thing surreal about what is written is that the encryptions are your reality transformed into the physical entity of writing.
There is a person behind the words.
There is a story within those words.
There is soul inside the poetry.
There is feeling in reality.
What is unwritten is only ever unfinished, and what is unfinished needs to be written. What needs to be written will be lived, and what was lived is thusly transcribed.
Write, darling, for it is your immortality.
I write, darling, for it is my immortality.
It is our immortality.
Write, darling, just write.
Until there is nothing left to say except the raw, wild, unfiltered, unencumbered, relentless, limitless feeling of what humans have come to call “inspiration”.
Write, darling, for it is immortality.