But writing is poisonous. It spreads its poison in the writer's mind yet again. Another fresh writer is born with the impulsive reproduction occurred between the writer's mind and the writer's thinking. The pen or the handful of fingers like an incisor helps her/him give birth to a caesarean baby - the writing.
The writing is born. A child is given birth to. The mother/father is happy to see it. A little child, still having a foreign warmth, still having a fresh eyesight to discover the world.
The writing is now moved from one lap to another. It is hucked and hugged, compressed and caressed, valuated and evaluated. The writer along with her/his pen looks out. The child is a property of others by this time. It grows not, but grows its vicinity. It is walked for a certain number of days, and then it walks by itself, and then it walks on and on.
The writer looks out. She/He is old now. She/He counts its age on her trembling palms. Once torn off, the writing comes back ever. Conspiring with the cloud and cloudlet, the sun and the sunlet, the moon and the moonlet, it walks on and on through a jungle of appraisals.
The writer, one day, dies. The writing, that day, spreads even more than it has spread before. The writer is engraved. The writing takes to a living on the writer's memory. Here, by this time, the writer of the writing rises from the tomb with a view to authoring a new child...