write to a writer.

To: My Spirit/Emotional Support Animal

From: An extremely grateful writer.

for once, i'll be blunt; but only this time for you love.

i gave up on poetry. i have gave up on novel drafting. i gave up on short story creating. i gave up on writing. why? i'll let you pick the answer you like better, regardless, they're both true: i lost motivation. i sucked at it.

the former had no correlation to the latter, i swear it; it's not a dry spell when the devatastion sticks. and believe me, it stuck. then when it rained, those rare, blessed days; i couldn't even dance in it. instead, i cupped out my hands and took a sip. tell me, why did i refuse to dance in it? as for the latter, i don't know. i wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote, until my hands gave in to exhaustion. then i didn't even read it; becuase scribbles aren't proses, they're not even muses; they're just decorations on a paper dancing. and they were mocking me. mocking me with their dancing. but i'm better now and this letter isn't about me, it's about you. irony: it's about me being about you and you being about me; but all of couse, releatively.

i'll start at the beginning.

remember our hidden wonder of the world where i wrote naive poetry and simplistic stories, thinking it to be everything? and you drafted pieces of advice for youthful writers like me that had no idea what they were doing? and i'll be honest: behind the screen, i found it cruelly too easy to overlook things. specifically, the you behind those pieces of advice i was carelessly stealing (in the sense of never thanking or appreciating). then, i stumbled across it unintentionally. read through the whole damn thing quickly, greedily scanning for my diguise on the list of dancers that made up our hidden wonder of the world.

there it was. to quote you exactly, you told them this about me: "kindness isn't a compeititon...but Dmoral is winning." and it broke me. and i finally crushed the wall around me and started piecing together your, well, your everything. then you left, it started slow, like a turtle embarking on it's way home. slowly, you slipped away, until there was nothing left but a name i hardly knew and a folded map i couldn't read.

but writer's can do more than writing, you showed me that. i found you quickly and that's when the flower bloomed. the mundane will call it prose, but for me and you? let's call it the falling star that landed in our laps. because surely, this is where it started.

i stopped writing, the raining didn't faze me, not all flowers keep blooming. but you, you dug up my roots i called poetry and started watering; but me? i remember it as a blissful drowning (who knew it took dying to keep growing?). soon my mind strung together your praises like the necklace i made my friend for her 16th birthday; only this time, i knew it wouldn't be breaking. and now you've made me a collector, your diction is already wrapped for me before you even know what you're saying.

tell me, did i thank you?

not properly no, so here it goes. thank you. i can read, comment, explore, discover, water your roots all i want. but it's nothing compared to the dancing you did for me in the rain when i didn't want to. and i know i said i'd be blunt, not abstract, but i can't help it. when the writer knows there's an audience, the number doesn't quite matter anymore when it's for those you cherish so much. so thank you. and know, that i wasn't ever really winning. besides, i was tied with you.

because a writer doesn't just write, it waters the others. tell me, who do you think makes the trees grow for bookmaking? and what makes you even better, is how you danced in the rain to collect the water.

so thank you, you're the truly the best writer.