A writer is someone who cries, laughs and dreams through a pen. They don’t spill blood, they spill ink. They don’t draw swords, they draw words. These artefacts, handed down to us by generations before, no matter how carefully and masterfully articulated, can never convey the true nature of reality, the true being of consciousness. The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao. The writer knows this, but gives it their best shot anyway. For the writer is also aware of the Divine within, and of the fact that in the beginning, was the Word.