Sometimes you just write to find peace , you write to walk on a plane that has nothing but clear skies and green grass. But, all of that can go away as fast as you get it. The moment the ink dries up, the moment the pen is put down. The clear skies become faded and poisoned by the darkness of the looming clouds. To all who do not understand me assume I speak in parables to flaunt my knowledge but how wrong they are. I speak like this for it is true, I speak like this cause there is no other way I can describe it. I write to earn a living, I write to so I can be more. So I can be someone. Up to this point I have achieved nothing but debts. Before I sleep I question myself, what I have become and if the path I take is truly worth it. Is there a final goal to all of this or is this my life now and forever. February 27th I walk to the publisher’s office to show my new work. The Golden Boy. A tale of an African boy destined to be king. A story following the growth of a prince on his journey to adulthood. 7 months have been slaved away just so this simple story can be accumulated. February 27th I decide it’s finally high time I get a real job. Art doesn’t pay, I should’ve listened when I had the chance.
