I was never much a writer.

Ranting descriptions, laying out complex details, writing a universe in those pages.

It didn’t appeal me.

For in my mind, there was no world, no universe.

It was simply pitch black, a canvas that I could not see, nor the art.

So when I was pushed upon writing,

I didn’t want to choose anything to do with it.

I was simply a lizard that just wanted to bask.

But I knew one day, I’d be burned by the sun.

So I picked a pen, one that didn’t work most times, and I wrote.

Nothing in length.

Just words jotted down as if I was some sort of poet.

A Shakespeare with a weakened passion for reading, a Shakespeare afraid of their lack of ideas.

But I trut forward, escaping my sterile creativity.

Perhaps some day I’ll see the art I’ve made on that canvas.