He lets the wind take him places, far and wide. He’s light as a feather because he carries no secrets. That’s the mark of a writer.
He recklessly empties his heart out on parchment; audience or none, that’s his quiet calling. He need not rack his brain for words fitting, for they flow like the river empties itself freely onto the endless ocean. He’s held by no boundaries because his mind is infinite. That’s the mark of a writer.
His heart is empty except for his desire. To fill his heart with awe and wonder, only to empty it again, is his never-ending cycle. He seeks his own passion. He creates his own world. He is nowhere to be found, yet he is everywhere. That’s the mark of a writer.
Empty your heart out today. See what words you find.