His breath: so close to me, like a whisper of satin; a secret; mine. My eyes are closed but I know he is there - I know soon I will feel the softness of his lips touching mine. Soon I will feel his fingers tracing down my body, stroking me, soothing me. His touch; soft, and delicate; sure, and strong.

I narrowly open my eyes, just stealing a glimpse, but that's all I need. His eyes - so deep, never-ending. They tell of his passion, his fire, his lust. And it's just us …

His eyes…

So dull, so desperate, so lonely. They looked like the life had been scratched out - ripped off. And he looked tired; so very tired. I looked closer and I thought I caught a glimpse of hope, or love, or happiness; but at once it was gone, swallowed in his sea of sorrow. I knew they had loved once, they had lived once, they had felt once. What could do this? What could drain all the tears from such young eyes? What could makes scars incapable of healing? What memories lay imbedded behind those clouded orbs?

His cracked lips were silent but he said more to me than anyone had ever done. His eyes spoke for the both of us - he had survived the war; he had died during it.

Writing is an art - a window into the deep minds of people. It’s mysterious; it’s a secret, but it’s known; and everyone has their own thoughts waiting to be discovered. The pen is not the tool - it is the mind.

Feel the words swimming through your head; feel them tickling your tongue; swirling; waiting to be told. Then grab a pen, and open your mind. Let your mind take you into worlds you knew but couldn’t remember, let you senses guide your hand, your words, each letter. Close your eyes. Think. Write.

Writing is clear and complex, it’s easy and it’s hard, it’s hatred and it’s love. Writing is not an art. Writing is a feeling and a thought and the ability to share.