Delightful reveries

Writing is not a skill .It is an art , of carefully choosing the choicest words,and weaving them together in a fashion that would entice him/her to read more. Writing is not an art .It is the science , of applying the mind's most brilliant ideas and presenting them to the world on paper. Writing is not science , it is the skill of laying carefully, the thought processes that bog the brain and heart, everyday, every night. Great writings do not just exist. They create, Imagination in the mind of the reader; Dreams in the eyes of soul;A world of fantasy to the dreamer;A place of escape to the weary; Another world to the traveler; Description to the blind; Solace to the seeker. They become a friend to the friendless. Great writings provide courage and comfort, warmth and inspiration,and knowledge. They can inspire and sadden at the same time.Be sarcastic yet joyful and provide love yet inject darkness. Not everyone can write so. Hence writing is not a skill,it

                                                              Golden light:);)                                                                                                                 Illuminati                                                 The busy quietness of an evening.

And I'm back with a bang!!!! Meanwhile, this is what happened in AshVland: A poem ;) It rains noisily, I jump and run fast, Trying to find shady trees, my feet splashing against puddles and wet leaves. I run for cover, when I hear footsteps, following me to the tree. My heart lurches and races and pounds to be free. These are the footsteps of my past whose eyes stare at me, boring into the back of my body. I breathe heavily trying to forget my past, watching a thin tree run past. I almost trip, still living in the past. Finally find  a tree, Heave a sigh of relief, only to find that,my past has followed me quietly, to my grief. I try to stare back at it, look it in the eye, it gleams of failures wrought on it. I shut my eyes, unable to bear, try to disconnect, leave it under the tree, yet the heart looks back as I run in front, trying to become free. The rain has stopped. So that was the poem!! How did y