Writing with ice and fire
If you write with words, then you are not really writing. You must write with the whisper of the wind, with the blood of your heart on the parchment of time; birthing the shape of the spirit to reach the pinpoint of Everest that pricks the tip of your pen as though the whole weight of the mountain stood on its head; writing with ice and piercing the cold wall of indifference with tears of fire. Your truth is the Holy oil that forever floats above, separating itself from the crushing waves of your eternal tempest of the soul.
Words turn into spirit distilled from exalted meaning, a transfiguration essence that gets you drunk and melts away the heavy coat you wear to conceal your enchanted butterfly wings.