＃４３

The bastard thing about writing is - all the times most worthy of being written are precisely those we are least able to write. Romance-struck or wounded, bored shitless at a desk, waking foggy-minded from a forgotten dream or terror… those are the moments that we live uniquely. It is as though the language-self peers over a chalice of the soul, eager to pen down an exact quantity of life that fills the cup… but then turns away whenever the chalice empties or overflows, experiment ruined, and occupies itself elsewhere doing god knows what.

Stay, goddammit! Nobody lives a life of highlights; nobody will find themselves in your epiphanies and catechisms. Tell me of the moments you weren’t invited to — alright, you can sit in the corner — and I will gladly give you all the rest.