These pages have kept me far too warm for far too long. They’ve fueled an obsession for dreams I’ll never see to fruition.
Why do I spend my hours believing in these imaginary adventures?
How could I have been such a fool to allow myself to fall in love with beings who’ve never existed?
I’ve allowed myself to create fantastic places where logic bears no merit. Where fate pulls strings near and far. A place where I could lose myself in the life I’ll never live.
This is what it means to be a writer. To live through your literary counterparts. But fail to experience the life you’re apart of. I have plot lines and prose extruding from my pores. But I fail to realize the potential of my own existence.
I’ve lived behind the shadow of my fear. I’ve bricked myself behind this wall of false confidence. Forever the storyteller, never the story maker.
I want the world to see my for the talent I hid. I want to line bookshelves with stories I’ve failed to complete. I live my life in ironic contradictions. I cause myself the pain I want to save the world from. Why? Am I too afraid of falling behind? Am I too afraid of succeeding my own wildest dreams? Or am I afraid of being seen for who I am. Who knows?
You click. You read. You like and comment. But do you understand? Do you understand what it takes to push these pages to the brink of their exhaustion? To type these words in such an emotional succession that my own heart wants to burst? I don’t. Even the words find no meaning to me these days.
Maybe it’s the changing of seasons. Or maybe it’s the dawning of something new. But I feel no connection to these stories or words. I feel lost within the pages now. I’ve always wanted to be known for something. But with all my uncompleted tasks it looks like I’ll just be known for giving up. But at least I’ll be known for something..
It’s these delusions of grandeur that fuel my dreams of writing. It’s my obsession with the supernatural that push my mind to its breaking point. It’s my infatuation with tempting fate that throws my pulse into the sky. I could be better. I want to be better. I need to be better.
What does it mean to be a writer? Being a writer is selling yourself short.
All the while the world thinks your fingers ( or pens ) are blessed by Midas. I’d sell every ounce of talent in my soul to be okay with the person in the mirror.
I’ve made mistakes and I’ve hurt people I’ve cared about. I’ve thrown things and people away whom I never intended to. I’ve cursed gods and men for the way the world is today. But I could make a change. I could make a single change that could save the world. And if I knew what that change was, I would have made it years ago.
What does it mean to be a writer? If you’re looking for an actual definition, I have no idea. I’m still figuring it out.