The Writer

“Come, let’s have a chat in my office.

You press your hand against the damp, rotting oak door and slowly force it open. An origin of light somewhere behind you robs the dank room of it’s inner darkness. While straining your eyes to find the voice, you see the writer–hidden in your shadow.

The room’s occupant nods silently, a welcoming gesture.

“Finest greetings to you–my Voice.

A brief hesitation as he clears his throat.

“I am the writer. Words are my essence, my meaning, my life. And with words I bend reality. Empty space will suddenly breed living organisms. Blank slates will equate thoughts. Computer screens will share my emotions.

Brief passion faded into silent respite.

“But without a reader, words are meaningless. You empower my writings. You invoke my thoughts. You embrace my emotions–and therein lies a force greater than sword or spear. The power of influence.

“Now listen carefully–If you limit yourself to being only a reader, you limit the power of words.

“Every person has a voice. As the writer, I have many.

“And now you are one of them.

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