I am a wanderer, not a ghost.
With each voice I hear, I doubt my abilities to fill the pages accurately, doubt the fire that which feeds my passions. A greater piece of me clings to this ability as though it were more important than life itself. If all else fails, if Nothing else could come of me, let it be their words, their voices. When all has faded, let each stroke of key and quill stand bright. Vibrant with the whispers of each soul, of my spirit.
It is a burden that you can't shrug off. There is no stop or break.
In this hour, this Chapter's End, my score would cease. It would still to the drip of a faraway ocean, ebbing on the shores of our being. And flowing forth from the throat of No One, would come silence. It would fill the ears of those who would watch, and those who would listen would hear mountains slipping. No tick of seconds, no clip of thought to illustrate my moving mouth. Each conversation would house it.
'Til the writer can decide, I'll hold each breath, and when my motives are met, the world will gasp.
Question of the Day: Where do you think you'll be in two years?