A writer's eyes see past the embellishments. There is something about people watching that is mesmerizing. Just watching people walk by, hearing tiny bits of conversation carried on the wind, seeing expressions, watching body language, they're all threads within the tapestry that portrays that person's story and interweaves with the stories of those around them.
A writer's hands clutch at papers filled with words and responses and late night ventures into the alley ways of the mind and labyrinthine pathways of the heart. They spend slave away carrying the burden of the soul, such small appendages yet trusted with such potent power.
A writer's heart is just that. It beats within my chest only so it can beat out words. And so they fall as tears to the page unless, in some moment of they pulled outside of themselves into an inspiration so filling the heart bursts from its cage, spewing forth words as blood until all is spent.