“Ah, the dangers of a pen. The potential for beauty, destruction, truth and embarrassment. I manage to bombard myself with all of these things, each time I fill a page. Looking at them later, they are so bright I have to squint, burning with the fire of a thousand suns, scorching me anew with every word.
Sometimes they caress me, hold a piece of me safe in the eye of the storm, cradling my hopes as the winds of change wail around me. A tempest of thought, an assault on my heart, a whirlwind of flickering mental scenery, and a vacillation of ‘yes’ and ‘no’. I couldn’t tell you who is winning.
I am currently playing Russian Roulett with feeling and emptiness. A frightening little game where I will either win the ultimate pot of gold, or die a horrible screaming death, and bleed all over my notebooks. Whichever it is, I’m thinking I’ll get some really good prose out of it.
I know you don’t understand, but that’s ok. I have never found anyone who did…”