I believe writing to be one of the purest expressions of art, of self. That is not to say that all writing is pure, for we have our fair share of words and sentences and even entire books inflated with hot air, with nothing more to offer than a decorative wrapping paper, a shell that when cracked leaves you wanting for the yolk, the sustenance upon which the reader devours and subsists. Yet, perhaps in this concession we are granted clearer vision to the gems, in the same way that social media websites are littered with images produces a backdrop for the photographs that reach out and grab you to do so with increased vigor. This over-exposure may be attributed to the accessibility to the tools of the craft, cameras embedded in nearly every cellphone, and nearly every cellphone embedded in the pocket of the everyday teenager. In the same way, those miniature keystrokes can produce strings of words which will no day find their way into brilliant libraries with 140 spiraling stairs, though they may sure enough find their way into allotted boxes allowing for 140 characters. But do not let me discourage you, dear reader, for the very simplicity I speak of is why writing is so timeless. Granted, technology may have its place in many mediums, and in writing it provides a certain amount of speed and efficiency above the steely concentration of chiseling stone or the smooth flow of a calligraphy brush, yet even with these allowances, writing need not technology but only a stick in the sand, or better, a pen. Unlike the mega-pixel race, a new sensor, or getting hold of the latest production software, a pen in the hand is at no disadvantage to a computer at hand. Writing therefore is all the more elegant in its composition, for it is untainted through its conductance, its medium is pure and can convey the very essence of thought. Writing can transport one into another's mind, another's thoughts, another's ebb and flow. You see, dear reader, writing is an organic process, for these words are my words, created through my movements, and in the same way Michelangelo awoke the angel sleeping in a block of marble, carefully pulling back blanket after blanket to reveal even the softest threads which lay illuminated on the cheek, I too throw myself into the waxing and waning of creation, hoping that this seed of thought I have planted will continue to grow and branch -and though my shears may be coarse- may one day bear fruit of which we will not pick prematurely, but allow to slowly ripen..