"Saturday, six o'clock. Under the bridge the railroad crosses under. Graffiti on the walls, graffiti on the train. I've developed a new affinity for creation over the last months but not much has rivaled the view that I now am presented with. The sun is deep in the west and there is a cloudless light rain gently falling on this broken city. There is a rainbow at my back..."
That was some of what I jotted down this afternoon at the end of a bicycular excursion of sorts in a red moleskin journal I've been keeping lately.
Why do we write? Why do we feel the need to create and record these thoughts? I think it is the unencumbered freedom one gains when censorship is thrown out the window. It is the ability to comunicate an entire idea from begining to end without a shift of subject or an arguement being aroused. In any respectable social situation the verbal comunication of such complex thoughts, metaphorical stories, or descriptive narations would be cast aside in a moment. Could it be that the voice of the wordsmith has been silenced?