Writing

He wrote when he was happy.
When he felt down, he wrote.
He wrote before school every Tuesday and Thursday.
In the old, plaid armchair beneath the window in his bedroom.
Wrote when it was rainy.
When it was sunny.
He wrote about the gray cloudy skies.
And the blistering, hot sun.
When inspiration hit late at night, he crawled out of bed and wrote.
He wrote because he liked to.
Because he had to.
Because it told him more about himself than anything else.
Wrote about growing up.
Living life, having fun, falling in love.
Wrote about loss and acceptance after the death of his uncle.
He wrote while listening to that strange foreign music he so enjoys.
Kind, caring dragons and evil, greedy princes;
Beautiful young women and stuttering college boys;
All of these things he wrote about.
He wrote in a bright dream world.
In the dark empty reality.
He wrote to escape things.
As a refuge.
As a safehaven.
To keep himself from going insane, he wrote.
And he’ll continue writing, as long as the pen will let him.