There’s a part of me that fears death in the face of all of my unfinished business.
Life is so fleeting… our moments here are evanescent. I have so many visions in my mind; I don’t want them to be put to sleep before they’ve been realised… to have my ideas martyred at the expense of my idleness… to have them die before ever having lived. More specifically, as an avid writer, I don’t want all of these words to become a memoir of madness (for if madness isn’t the result of such obsessive, chronic chronicling which advances ahead with no purpose or use, then what is…?) Wasted words are one of life’s greatest shames, one I wish to play no part in (but lead the march nonetheless in all of my Words Unspoken and Dear Nobody’s.) Continue reading “Lost Art”
Diary of a Deluded Heart 