Sunday 2/4/24
There is nothing about the art of writing--by which I really mean the making of art with writing--that could ever get old to me. If anything, it becomes newer every day, as I grow.
But each single day of my life, and throughout parts of that day, a thought comes back to me at intervals and makes me shake my head because I marvel over it so much, and it almost seems too good to be true.
That thought is this: You can invent anything with writing. There isn't anything you can't do if you can do it. Humanity could be trillions of years old, and you can sit down and invent something that no one ever has before. There are no rules of what you can't do. There are no limits. It's entirely up to you and what you can come up with. What you can create. How far your mind and your imagination can go.
Isn't that amazing? Infinite possibility. What else has that? And it's all there for me. It's like it was made for me to come along and take advantage of this thing that does sound too good to be true, but it isn't. It's really there. It's really that way. There is nothing you can't do. You can invent anything.
What is more of an exciting possibility than that? It fills me with life and makes me so alive.
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