Conversational calligraphy, swirling belletristically within my mellifluous, merry mind; like whirring eddies of sparkling sense perception and thought; drove my fingers, or my MacBook, to the dawn. Perky preludes to lively, lilting lines deluged my sleepy conscious consequence with bliss. Watercolor whispers from eternity murmured softly of the timelessness of it all, a wake-up kiss. As my golden iPhone 6, my sleek and powerful research assistant, burst into cheerful readiness to serve; I felt elated at the thought of helping others, my joy and purpose, with flair and verve.
Daily writing is a prescription for happiness. When entering college, while struggling with graduating blindness; I met a girl and started writing every day. She was my muse, the living poetry of my inspiration; and from the idealistic illusion my mind formed her into, I wrote two poems a day for two entire semesters. At the time I was enchanted by the dreamy fantasies of resplendent romance, sultry sex, and lasting love; which is all they were, fantasies, since we only hung out once the entire year. I would anxiously sneak up to her dorm room door, scared shitless and trembling, worried that I would look like a stalker or something; leave some flowers or poetry on the floor, and knock quietly. Then I would run like hell to hit the staircase just in time to hear her sweet words trailing, “Hello. Hello. Oh, how sweet!” I was so imtimidated by the goddess I had grown her into that I worked myself up into a tumultuous tizzy every time I even thought about standing in her presence. About ten years later, when she picked me up from Ohare, as I was arriving from Honolulu at around 5:30 A.M.; I was amused when thinking back, the price I paid; the degree I was bedazzled and dismayed. What a calamitous kerfuffle my mind had made!
When released from Fifi la Fem’s alluring ways, I began focusing on the beauty all around me every day. It was always there, and still is. When I interacted with someone I found caring, sweet, or sexy; I would take the little bit of charm from our experience and turn it into the artistry of glamour, style, and grace. When possible, I would share my creations with their originators. They were almost always delighted, sometimes surprised, and occasionally wanted to hang out, dance, or play. When my literary mind craft morphed melodic, its muses, songs, and beauty filled the day.
Writing, for me, was born out of extreme anxiety, a coping strategy; which helped me focus on something other than my fears. It was a sweet release, and always helped me feel better. After accepting myself, my blindness, and its unique challenges; when no longer needing writing to help me cope; it soon became a source of joy, desire, and peace.
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