To me, to simply say 'writing is amazing' would be cutting its importance short. Not only can you express yourself to others through a permanency of words, but you can reveal something about your own self. What I think frightens people about writing is the false notion that they can't "do" it. Yet, writing isn't something that is supposed to be "done". It is a process, a celebration of words. Whether they are written by the most profound or strung together by the least. Each word written has meaning, though the writer or reader has yet to find or feel it.
I wrote the following poetic tale with no direction in my mind. Despite this, I have found that it reveals something about me, and by sharing it with all of you, I hope that it inspires you. It isn't my best written piece, but through writing this, I've come to respect the art even more. Reading your own writing, be it true or fiction, can serve a key to a door of valuable introspection. And that's why I encourage every single person reading this - whatever age or walk of life - to write.
On his fourth Christmas, his mother bought him a wooden train set.
He would sit all day in his room, clicking, playing; he would forget
Everything because nothing mattered except the destination of his train.
Watching the repetitive cycle with such unique amusement, again and again.
His eyes were glued to the wheels on the tracks
And after his mom would call him downstairs, he would come right back.
One would expect him to get tired of playing, but it wasn’t until he was ten
That he decided he was too old and it was time to shelve Thomas & Friends.
As he grew older, he began to recognize what really mattered,
Myself before others, money before chatter.
He got his first job at fourteen riding his bike around
Delivering newspapers to everyone in his town.
He would ride as if he was conducting a train to the point that
His mother and father bought him a conductor’s hat.
One day, he came home sad after a hard day’s work
And his mother asked him what was wrong.
He said he wanted to be a conductor
Not a newspaper boy throwing bags at houses all day long.
His hands were thick red, blistered and he complained that they itched
And his mom promised him it was because one day he would be rich.
Years passed and the boy became a man.
Grew up to let a two-digit number dictate his determination,
Debilitate, deviate him from divine direction,
And destroy his dreams and desires.
Dead like his mother and father and
Lost like the news he would deliver to his neighbors as a kid.
Went to a university, became a mechanical engineer to afford life
And its innumerable expenses – not a dagger or a knife.
Money fell from trees, while Thomas is still shelved with his friends.
Be life long or short, its completeness depends
On what it was lived for.
Today you can find the old man at Grand Central Station
Built while he wanted to conduct the creation.
Invisible smile on his face, utters his life was “enriching”.
Under the fake conductor hat he holds, is a palm still itching.