I think I just realized, or rather, just truly understood the fact that a writer has not the luxury of “last words.” Their words ring forever into the future-they have no end. The marks of their pen will forever stain the minds of those who dare to examine the words that they have written. This is apparent. Consider the poets and authors that were in existence before you and I… John Keats, Lord Byron, Jane Austen, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost. Through the works of their pens, they still speak. They have never ceased to give inspiration or insight. Their voice can still be heard every time we read their writing, and even after we close the cover of a book, we still ponder what was taken in and mull over it all in our hearts and minds. We borrow and quote their words; it is as if they were standing by with creased brow, in a romantic sort of daze, imparting it themselves. I am left in awe. Perhaps I am a bit strange for finding it of such depth, but it stirs my soul and my deepest thoughts alike. Writers have no “last words.” Their words are endlessly, carelessly scattered, and I will not feign disappointment that it is so, as I doubt they would.