Thursday 29 May 2014

A Source Of Journal-esque Release

I am currently in that frame of mind where my active consciousness is stealing ideas from all around and morphing them into fitting a mould that I have laid out for a story that has held me in its iron-tight grip for over a year now.
The mind of a writer is a very crowded place; but I find that I feel most peaceful when I'm turning my mad hyperbolic thoughts into tangible sentences.
There are few things in life that you know in a manner of certainty; things which you know to be true despite whatever else has thus far let you down and fooled your belief and raped your confidence. For me, perhaps the only thing I believe in, is that I was born to write. Nothing more, nothing less.
I may not have the brains to turn the earth around its axis and change the face of humanity or even the face of the literary world. But even if I manage to write a book some day that even five persons read and fall in love with, I will know contentment and that shall be my greatest conquest.
Anything and everything beyond that shall be God's overcompensation, and a sharper taste of success than I ever dreamed of.

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