Why Writing Is Good for The Soul

 
9781484982044: Why Writing Is Good for The Soul
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Once upon a time there was an odd little boy. He drew inspiration from the fictitious worlds found in books. He began creating fantastical worlds all his own. Like an artist with a paintbrush, a new reality in every stroke. The strange little boy spent hours upon hours writing in the dark with a flashlight fabricating a myriad of fairy tales with happy endings that only existed inside of his mind and his pen. He grew comfortable in his sadness, patiently waiting for the drops of joy that occasionally visited with the rain...
He learned that some point in everyone's lives, we will all realize that life is unfair and cruel.
And for most our downfalls outnumbered our triumphs. Depression and loneliness will cloak every one, sooner or later. Happy memories of the past hurt us. Unreached dreams haunt us. And people leave us.
He learned that no matter what life throws at us, we learn how to cope, we learn how to adapt, and most importantly, we all learn how to move on. Because that's life - it teaches us to be us. It teaches us to be humans.

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From the Author:

~His Artist~

When I saw you in the park you seemed so hungry, it was then that I promised to give you a home, a life and happiness. There was hardly room for us in my small apartment, we were suffocated and feverish, but I loved you with such a fierceness it didn't matter.
Putting our nickels together and with stolen things, we lived off coffee and crackers, our bellies were hungry but our hands were full of each other, our bodies were too big for such a small bed and we battled for a spare inch to have, We kept the door open to catch a cross wind to cool us down, we couldn't afford to run the air conditioning.We slept naked in the bed with the door ajar, our dappled skin exposed to those who walked by us. We were museum pieces in a brick mausoleum.
Our neighbors walked by, some would not notice us as they carried their groceries to their door and others would smile and leave something behind for us to find. The woman who died a week ago once left us some bread and a dollar for us to buy cheese,
we held that gift and cried from joy on the bed.
When we couldn't afford paper, you painted on my back, my hips and legs, we used the disposable camera a friend had given us that Christmas to remember your artwork hoping one day they could be developed and enjoyed, you said I was your most beautiful canvas, as I stood in front of the mirror naked and covered in your work.
When winter came we held each other so tight in bed covered in the quilts I had made from scraps during the summer,
many times we thought death would freeze us over to be left as artifacts to find when the Spring thawed our bones,
our teeth chattered and cracked from the wind but we never stopped holding each other.
We lived for four years in that small room with a sink that only worked on occasion when we prayed and pleaded, and sat on that window sill to smoke cigarettes and blow kisses to the strangers walking by, when I came home from visiting my parents, I found you in the bed, the doctor said you had died from pneumonia,
When he left I gave you a Viking farewell and burned our apartment.
Now I am waiting in the parks to see if I will find you in another face offering me a home.

From the Inside Flap:

Under the stars
The astronomer fell in love with a lonely poet. They lay on the roof of the poet's old car and tried to trace their names in the sky. "I love you more than the Moon," said the poet.
The astronomer thought for a moment. Then she said, "The moon is beautiful but it is harsh, and it has a dark side. I would not like to love the moon."
"I love you more than the brightest ring of Saturn."    The astronomer shook her head. "Saturn's rings are thin and cold, made of dirty snowballs. Close up, they are ugly. There is very little to love there."
The poet rested his fingers between the astronomers'. "Well I love you more than all of the stars."
"There are billions of stars," the astronomer sighed, "and not one of them has a word for love."
Defeated, the poet lay silent. The astronomer curled herself into the poets' side, turning away from the stars. "I love you without compare," she whispered into the poets' ear, "your arching spine adds art to the beauty of the backbone of night, your brown eyes pull my gaze away from the sky. When I fell in love with you, I fell from orbit."
The poet laughed. "You never stopped having your head above the clouds. I have always seen you as a celestial body, and you lifted me up."
"You are the one thing that makes me happy to be on the ground." And the astronomer kissed him.

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