I tired of living by the pen, in ink that never changed, in words that never satisfied, staring blankly from a page.
I wished to climb the mountains, like some wild child free, seeking answers not in stories, but the rhythm of the sea.
I wished to dance the dance of life and die the death of men, and I never did surrender; no, I fought until the end.
And I wrote in blood and water, in oil and in tears, painting whispers on the ceilings of the places I had feared.
I etched them into mountainsides, for others there to find, and a trail of ink was all I saw when at last I looked behind.
Though we may love and cherish the stories of others, they cannot satisfy the appetite, only whet it. We each must live our own story, hoping it, too, may inspire those who read it.