What compels a person to stay up all night, reading, typing,
what compels us to keep watching as the world floats by, even when sleep threatens to cloud our eyes and topple us where we stand?
Is it a need to tell a story?
A need to escape a bitter reality by reading or writing a new one?
A love of solitude or need for silence.
What keeps our fingers clicking down on the keyboard until we cannot move anymore?
Until the familiar melody of the key's becomes the writer's lullaby.
Is there a reason to it all,
Or is this a madness?
What is the spell that writers find ourselves bound in?
An art;
A curse;
Both.
Why do we write for hours, days, years, what are we accomplishing?
What is it we reach for?
When will we find it?
Are we hunting for fame?
Imortality?
The perfect page?
Or are we just lost, trying to find our way after trudging through the storm of human condemnation.
Why do we write the things we do?
Are we born with the knowledge that we must write?
Is it a part of us?
A trail of ink flowing through our blood?
   Or are we just fumbling around in the dark, each searching for a light to guide us to inspiration.
Do people care?
Do they see us as a part of their lives?
Do they imagine us sitting at our computers 48 hour days when they read our work?
Or are we invisible as the pieces we discard in distaste?
Invisable hands.
What keeps us going?
Imagination;
Caffine;
Both;
Do we care?
Do writers search for the answers, or only write more questions?
Do people see us in our works, or do we hide behind them?
A sheild from societies limitations, or a bridge to rise above them?
We are writers;
we are artists.
The most simply complex form of human life.