Writing hides deep in the mind locked in rooms waiting to be discovered, in someone else's life, tugging on your heart strings,

it hides within one's heart, mind and soul poured onto the paper

in the air we breathe, and in the expanse of space that looms over us

in the refrigerator when we open it, under your pillow when you wake up-in the subconcious of every person in the world

in everything we've heard or read, from within one's self or a teacher's assignment

in every class I've ever taken

in daily laughs and mundane events,

in walls of an old farmhouse, among a box of pictures

in the giant fish that took twenty minutes to reel in

in words we want to yell but can't.

 

From your environment and opinions, from your dreams and your hopes for a better future

and in our losses

in our proudest moments and darkest hours

from outside reality, fueled by our dreams and imagination

from people around us and things that make us happy or sad

from ideas and emotions, we write to our surroundings-from our surroundings, a form of art.

 

It hides in my past, my accomplishments, adventures and family experiences

from possibilities in the future, anywhere inside of you

in the depths of thoughts or plain in sight.

Finding it is the climb, sharing it is the gift.

 

It hides behind a veil of ignorance

it hides in your life story-from who you are and what you've been through

in other writing, in previous pieces read to discover more

in our TV shows, favorite novels, movies, and comic strips

memories, sparked by real life events and ideas gathered

in every experience-the trip to the store, a day at school, the loss of your best friend.

 

In a spot where ideas are born, writing grabs the spotlight.

 

Writing is inspired daily, out of the simplest things, the words seem to be waiting

it is easy to turn anything into an exciting story, drawing you in with every line,

even in the dark, light can be found.

 

It comes from our childhood, from the empty part of your body that aches to tell, to feel, to be.

 

It hides in everything, different for everybody

It's trapped and interest is the only key that can unlock its prison cell

it makes itself available to all who care to look.

Then...Writing isn't hidden.