Someone asked me why it was that I wrote.
Honestly, it’s like a soft breeze blowing over sun-dried straw.
The sound of a sharp pencil on the first page of a new book.
It’s raindrops on warm skin; the orange sunset-stained sky over dusty Limpopo mountains.
It’s the taste of pineapple: a sweet kiss on the lips and a feisty tickle on tongue.
Words can simply not describe it – incredible, I know. Expression draws only a mere outline of the feeling. The joy of writing is as an encapsulated flavourant that has the power to tickle the tastebuds of a reader.
Writing is much more than proving a point, more than just having something to say. It’s the connecting of souls on paper. It’s an engagement of intellect and emotion. It’s more than recreation – it’s procreation. This, right here, is mental intercourse.
Lauryn Hill lyrics.
Voices of The Mazwai Sisters.
D’angelo’s cool.
It’s a lazy summer Sunday afternoon with the melancholies of a Sade song in the background.
That’s why I write.
