Which of your tired angels, or stone-faced prophets, write the epitaphs for those dreams that we sacrificed so tenderly? Is there a meadow
in your heaven, a quiet place apart from the ceaseless rejoicing, where the beauties of what might have been may go to forget the slow
decay of remorse? I ask this of you, without pity for myself, but rather, sadness for what has become of those feelings and hopes and
loves that weren't permitted to die a natural death; the hearts that were silenced by betrayals. I haven't forgotten that first
entrance to your cathedral in the woods; I felt in that moment that I could change the world with nothing but a pen and your love to guide me.
The world it seems, has seen fit to punish my vanity, and rightly so. Or have I finally come to understand that I don't live in a legend or
an epic, have I woken from a fairy tale to understand my own weakness? I wish I had known how green the world was in my youth; perchance
I would not have taken those quiet moments with you for granted. I don't believe in myself, how can I when I have thrown away so much,
spoiled so much beauty with my ignorance, my need to ask questions of the dreams rather than accept them as blessings from your soul.