Writing is something that I have done for as long as I can recall, it was the only thing throughout my days that I can honestly say I did for myself. Often it lead to nothing, but the desire to create something lasting, endured through my younger years and I eventually committed myself to getting one thing done. Just one piece written to a conclusion, not allowing boredom to put me off, once the excited fever of the thought had cooled, and the task of putting to paper begun.

I have come some way since that long ago moment, and though I feel that I have learned much in my endeavours, I am here to find out just what it is I have created. It is worthy of note, or dare I hope praise?

Can my thoughts and ideas about the meaning of things and why things are as they appear be taken on board whole hearted by another person?

I hope to one day be able to say that is it so, but regardless I will continue to write until my final day, it is the only way to bring order to the maelstrom of thoughts in my mind, I cast my net far out into my mindscape and gather all I can to expell them at the page, hoping that enough of those infantile thoughts might stick to make a connection to another like minded soul.

If you got this far down my monologue of haphazard random musings, thanks for taking the time, I hope you find something you like, something that might make you want to be better than you are, or feel deeper than have until now, literature should inspire us to live as we often fail to. If I can convey that much to another person, then all I have strived to create, even those that lanquished half formed, will have not been in vain.

D.