Good writing ages, like body and mind from which it is drawn and writ down. Bubbles of youth toy with fables of fairies and angels and elves and balloons. Happiness lost with the first burst of sadness, a doll with one missing arm. Love enters shyly in virginal prose, hid neath a hymen of lessons unlearned. Naiveté vanquished in droplets of blood, coloring boldly words worth their passion; still, there is more to be said.
Loving and losing fine friends and trappings, learning to step on ahead. Backwash is brutal but softened by time, or painted in tapestry swirls that confound. Moving away, moving to someplace, moving to something that never was known. Hidden in corners, blinked back in tears, polished by memory, words learn to describe what was there only better. Boastful or coy, guided by knowledge, life worth the living is worth writing down.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
somehow, this oddly gave me some sort of hope; that in the simple act of writing, we are living
(of course, rarely is there anything simple at all about writing, but you get the idea)