Some days I hate that my world is wrapped up in writing. In finding that next idea. In making sure that sentence is correct as if weeping while waiting does any good, especially without tears.
The long nights and even longer days. Waiting for forever to come, not knowing if forever exists.
The dichotomy. The emotion and words, the validation of life’s pursuits. Of life’s dreams. The crush of refusal, the agony of losing again, of missing the elusive, the luck diminishing as the stories grow, the waves of torture that bind my fingers to the keys.
But I go on loving this devil, this terror, this dream breaker because nothing good ever came from something easy.