You couldn’t see how much ink it had. It might run dry after the fi rst few tentative① words or last just long enough to create a masterpiece② that would last forever. And of what would you write: Of
You couldn’t see how much ink it had. It might run dry after the fi rst few tentative① words or last just long enough to create a masterpiece② that would last forever.
And of what would you write: Of love? Hate? Fun? Misery③? Life? Death? Nothing? Everything? Would you write to please just yourself? Or others? Or yourself by writing for others? Would your strokes④ be tremblingly⑤ timid or brilliantly bold? Fancy with a flourish⑥ or plain⑦? Would you even write? Once you have the pen, no rule says you have to write. Would you sketch? Scribble⑧? Doodle or draw?
There’s a lot to think about here, isn’t there?
Now, suppose someone gave you a life...
We know our friend in a certain light, but we don’t know them the way their lover does. Their mother knows them differently than their roommate, who knows them differently than their colleague. Their
Starry① starry night, paint your palette② blue and gray Look out on a summer’s day With eyes that know the darkness in my soul Shadows on the hills, sketch③ the trees and the daffodils④ Catch the
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I would have talked less and listened more. I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet①was stained② and the sofa faded. I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ra
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To my daughter,Don’t apologize when someone else bumps into① you. Don’t say ’sorry to be such a pain.’ You’re not a pain. You’re a person with thoughts and feelings who deserves respect. Don’t stay h