SirRajah2
Posts: 35
Joined: 10/6/2014
Status: offline
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He sat in a dimly lit,
cavernous room,
with pen in hand,
his paper lying before him.
he wrote, writing page after page.
His writing, what wasn’t written,
was just as important,
if not more important,
than what was written.
What was not written
contained all the thoughts,
the ideas, the visions,
that came between, the words,
the sentences, and the paragraphs
of what was written
What was not written,
was the heart and soul,
the spirit and the essence,
of what was written.
He lived between his words,
between his sentences,
his very existence was lived
between the pages of what he wrote.
And so,
it was written
or it wasn’t written,
as the case maybe.
At least he knew
perhaps one day, just perhaps,
before his never-ending story ended.
he would write what wasn’t written
for others to read.
However, for now, he would write,
write what he saw,
write what he felt,
and he would write what he dreamed.
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What wasn’t written - 
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