I promise, this will be the last snip for the day.
What we get from the feeling of finishing a very interesting article, story or post we write is something that varies in shade, intensity and purity. We can never put it in words with such quantification and precision, the essence is not contained in a jar in its entirety. Writing has been an escape from the real. Writing has been the reality for the imagined. Writing has been the instrument to bend and break. Writing has been the wall which many have leaned on when they have rubber legs from all the whiskey they drank. The feeling is fleeting in its sense that we don't know that what we may write is some sort of magic for others. And that the magic in itself is not knowing that we've made real some things that have not been real for a long time.
I don't know about this post but I just want to write it. Maybe it's just the cold getting in between my toes.