I suppose, in a way, writers are magical

Remarkable, enchanted creatures with the power of Words; the power to spin tales as high as the mountains, The power to make you weep, or cry with joy, the power to make you feel a little less alone.

In a way, writers are reclusive

Spending our days hunched over a desk, or a computer, or a typewriter; carefully connecting the words to make them make sense, ignoring the outside world as we delve deeper into ourselves to find that one, perfect word

In a way, writers are brilliant

Finding words and stringing them together, just so, so that they say what we want them to, researching day in and day out for the information we need, reading book after book until it’s etched into our memory

In a way, writers are liars

Spinning tall tales that are complete fantasy, giving false hope to a child, or whoever wishes to escape their dismal reality, making people believe in something that isn’t real, creating new names for ourselves as they publish under a byline (Though really, that’s not so bad)

In a way, writers are immortal

For they can take their words, and the world will listen.

Maybe not just yet,

Maybe not in a thousand years,

But they will listen. One day, when we are all old and gone and forgotten in the sands of time, our writing will still be there. Our words will still be there. For the words never die, and in them, we live forever.