Some stories beg to be told. They yearn to be written down, marring a pure white sheet of paper with a power and fury constrained between the lines. Yet the ink in the pen will not flow; it will not let flow the thoughts and emotions buried deep within. No, instead, the banter in my head mingles between what is real and the story desperately waiting to be born; to become..."human" - something real and tangible, something that can be seen and felt, by the world in human form. This expression, whether it be in written or verbal form, is at its most basic core guided by divinity.
Words are boundless, infinite, and if written well, everlasting outside the halls of academia and the walls of libraries where they might be shelved for time immemorial, "extending beyond the reach of memory, record, or tradition" because the story knows no bounds. It reaches deep into the recesses of time and as each generation comes to pass, there it will remain in the forever within reach on that pure white paper on which the very first word was spilled.