I just want to write a book and be happy. Is that so hard?
I write. Just write. I’m not sure if that’s romantic anymore because I’ve lost my original purpose (I wrote it down somewhere).
I’m somewhat eccentric in my tenacity. Narcissistic, I think. Wisened as pages of endless thoughts, jaded as the words are faded.
Mystical, some say, when I merely described a bitter sugar-coated honesty, like all of life’s ironies and short-lived sweets.
I’m hooked on the drug. Hypnotised by the movement of my pen as I drive it on subconsciously, mercilessly, forgetting that even ink is finite and even moments like these come to an end. No, I keep going while I appreciate, lest I lose the faculty.
Insane in my persistence, I’m told that it will get me somewhere one day. I reply in obscurity, poetry jumbled in my head. They think my brain is brilliant, but I know it is merely weird.