How does one figure out if they are a great writer, or if they are simply someone completely seduced by the fantasy that they are, but can't stop writing anyway?
Is the endless attempt to pour the entrails inside our head onto a page the spark of greatness or insanity, both, or neither? Or is the question simply ours to ask but only for others to answer?
The endless diary of bad decisions is written by the fool who followed his own words down a rabbit hole so deep, that he lost sight of everything and everyone who mattered, and died alone in the coffin of his unread scribbles, with a pencil through the heart.
The written word is like breath on a window pain, lingering after the breathing is over.
From a future grave with each word we write, then, we grasp in vain for a permanence that will remind future generations of that salute from Whitmann, that we are ever there, in all the folly and the foolish wishes, in all the dread and despair, in all the hopes and fears that imbue each and every generation - I am with you.
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