I've grown to wonder how I could ever make my words become margins to my emotions. You see, my words have always been aligned to justify passions that I, myself, doubt to truly have existed. The issue of which concerns me most is the fact that for the past few years, I fear, all the spilt ink has been nothing at all. All I have between my ribs are feelings I can not trust until I spill ink instead of blood. Sadly, at times I cannot even trust my very own ink, as heartfelt as it might be, and I believe that is the greatest tragedy a writer could ever be bewildered by.

20/05/2015