As I write these words, I know not where they will lead. Whether some fine memory or some speculative imagery, all I know is that words will be written down. Then some inspiration comes to me and I write with some kind of form. A little piece of poetry. It’s structured, deep, and flows. Alas, it still does not convey all which I wanted it to. It lacks the breadth needed for the idea which underlies the words. I keep it anyways, for it has the seed of a story which will eclipse it. But still, it was the seed and it lives on in the fully formed story. It has grown in depth, breadth, complexity, length, height, and many other descriptors. Alas, it still conveys the same idea, just more fully expressed. From what comes the tree if not the seed? Thus the use of poetry. Thus, I write. Thus, a seed. Soon… a tree.
Meta
Metasophy 