Friday March 10 2023
11:45PM
It's quite ironic really, choosing - despite it not being a choice at all - to do this thing called write. Eventhough there is an unrelenting appetite for attention, I've choosen the field that gets the least bit of awe; there are no colours, no sounds, no pictures, no facial expressions, to embody this form of art. The only tool we have are words, that we use to paint colours and express music as you sound the words silently in your head. We are found in the corners of bars, alone, empty glasses in hand; in dark empty rooms with an ever increasing silence as our breathing fills the room; on buses and in cars gazing at the endless world moving around us as we struggle to find a place in the commotion. It's ironic, because despite the seek for recognition, for applause and affection, I've gone down the path that catches no ones eyes. But I mean who cares really, it's all very befitting, for there to be a never ending quest for the love that always stays out of reach. Even in these bland pages that all look the same at first, there always remains a place that we forever attempt to reach. That is, a place where you are who you actually think you are, a place where you are adorned, both emotionally and professionaly. But reality resembles a place where you are continuously reaching out, and forever stay waiting; having to batter down your ego, relinquish the desire that maybe one day they'll love me. And that is not to say that I am worthy or unworthy of love, that is not of great importance. The point I think I'm trying to make is that in this life some people - a select few - will notice, like seeing the first bud during spring before they've bloomed, or a star shining faintly in a city full of bright lights, and that someone will make everything worthwhile.
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