for once I pick up my own pen to write about passion and a revival of life after writing nothing but my own grief for months
like a tragic hero in writing my downfall is entirely my own fault but I come to stand normally and equally as another man
and I wish I could say it was just writing that brought me back. but not even throwing myself into illustrating the depths of passion and pain alike in bliss made my heart burn bright again,
maybe it was when I picked up that book about growing and learning and that's when I realized I had my own book completely on hold
the many stories I spun as a boy about having friends and a dedicated love to occupy a deep sadness, to fill a neverending hole of depression and anger that grabbed onto me as a child and didn't let go until my education started,
I look around now and find myself surrounded by loyal and educated friends that I didn't before have, and a lover to call entirely my own who treats me as if I was a demigod in human form walking amongst him and also as much human as I can be
through every corner of these pages my love runs rampant, the chapters dedicated to my name in the books of my company seem to burn bright with the motivation I gave even when I was a burned out flame,
your words aren't shit in a book if your character doesn't grow. if they're not taken down a peg or 3000 from where they once vainly stood, if they're not dragged to the depths of hell where they're compared as no more exquisite than any other man,
but it is that development that brings light and life to them. the acceptance that your castles stood on sand but you can build them back up with a proper foundation
oh, whatever. I'm feeling better
