Same old song

I am troubled by your blasphemous disdain.  It is appalling how you constantly refer to writers as fickle.  Especially when you are unappreciative of what was written for and about you.  As writers, we do not envision something new.  We merely sculpt the beauty in front of us using words.  It is what we are good at.  Our allegiance is to our writing, whoever the muse is.  Our hearts, though, belong to only one person.  At a time, that person was you.  Yet, it was you who was fickle.  You became a mirror.  Whoever asked you what was wrong would get their reflection as the reply.  I write to move people.  To see their mouth curl into a smile as they read what I’ve written.  I write to make a tear roll down someone’s cheek, because I’ve written exactly what has been on their mind for so long.  I write, because some people cannot find their voice.  I become their voice through my words.  I try my best to get their accent just right, and they thank me for it.  It is that thanks, that appreciation that drives me to write.  So, call me fickle.  Be my guest.  And I, dear, shall become a mirror.  And whenever you wonder what’s wrong, you’ll see a reflection of yourself.