How can I know I am moving when the air around me is ghostly still the room surrounds me, white and chill and the sun peeps over the windowsill. I lean on my talent as though it would carry me and place blame on my family as though they would harry me but no one but I can defy these workings of fate, and I'm under obligation of no one to be great, but my aim is to be what I know I must be, I am not a wheel to drive an engine I am the blade defending, I'd die before that I love and need no threat from below or blessing from above.
I arrived as a child of dust and from it I derive no meaning other than to look for such a thing that has no answers, advancing only at the mercy of my own whims. I must find things I love and feed them and in turn connect myself to the world and breeding these passions I'd fashion a place, my memory retrieving, and feel fascinated and young like the inner child I'm starting to believe in.
About: Trying to not lose my curiosity and creativity, and not to give up on my dreams.