yet to changing seasons I was forever still
Oh, winds and rains and snow and storms,
I’m not inert, just stalling.
A writer is like a painter. The scenes imagined so vividly by him are filled with abundant details. In split seconds he is pulled by gravity of thoughts and transported into the scene. But he does not always get to the center of the scene, nay. Sometimes he peeks into people’s houses from a dark alley or shamelessly looks in the eyes of girl of her dreams. He lets the medium roast Columbian coffee assimilate his soul and collects the human noises aptly in his ears. There is so much to see and touch and smell and draw attention to. Where should a writer, if he is a painter, begin the first stroke?
Some would argue the starting point is arbitrary.