Writing

It might seem odd to write about writing, perhaps even ironic; however, it's oddly fitting, and on some level necessary, depending upon ones chosen form of expression, and subsequently necessary at the present time.

Writing is an art.
A craft.
An outlet for inward expression.
A processing ground.
Mental breath.
Sanity.

The process of crafting, coercing and causing words to exist together in a harmonious fashion is a beautiful and satisfying thing.

It's like a puzzle. There are pieces which upon first examination seem to fit; however, when more closely inspected the pieces clearly do not belong. It is the same with an ill-constructed sentence, phrase or thought. It simply doesn't fit.

Joy arises from finding the most fitting construction. It's like a personal triumph when the sentence, thought or phrase, after perhaps much coercion, chooses to behave and comply. It's a most beautiful thing, the crafting of thoughts together.

I find much pleasure in it. Fitting words, phrases, meanings, insinuations into their most becoming positions. It's like dressing a beautiful model, it must be done with care and skill. A gorgeous model is good but beautiful clothes are necessary. Word dressing is an art, and it requires much practice. Perhaps I need to find some models to dress...