The Truth About Storytelling

There are some choices that we find we cannot make.

Sitting in the quiet, it's easy to let the real world go. See past the sunlight and the shadows to the world hidden just out of reach. If you look hard enough, sometimes you catch a glimpse.

The artist, sitting with her brush and canvas, quickly captures the curve of a wing, the shape of a smile, the look of mischief. The writer, his pen poised above his notepad, hesitates. He knows that the world he sees is not just part of his imagination.

He feels his mind light up with idea after idea. He feels the draw of the pen, the urge to write what he knows down. But still, he sits motionless. Simply waiting. Waiting for the urge to pass. Waiting for the truth to fade from his eyes. Waiting, to write things that he knows are not true.

He sits, he waits, until the urge is too much for him to overcome. He cannot help himself as he scribbles down everything that he can. His hand moves of its own accord. His mind is a frenzy, bursting with a new idea every second.

He knows he shouldn't. He knows the price he will pay. He simply cannot stop himself. His hand is moving too quickly for him to be able to keep up. He finds that it is not himself who is writing, but the truths that long to escape. He is simply the vessel through which they have decided to be carried.