When thoughts are put to paper it is making common something that is unique and often indescribable like: ambrosia on the lips, the weight of love, the hurt of betrayal, the bitterness of regret, the peace of contentment. Words just form the lines of the colouring book that our mind fills in...
But then again, if we don't give form to our thoughts won't they just fade into purgatory? That seems a little sad. Even as a shadow, is it not a better existence than that fate?
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