There is a sad truth to being a writer;
We are never whole.

We may be in love;
But also out of love.

We may be rich;
But therefor poor.

We may be insightful;
But blinding.

We may have it all;
Yet have nothing.

We see both sides of the story; good and bad.
We are the contrasts of emotions and thoughts, placed together with ideas, like broken fragments of imagination reflecting the light from the sun on a warm Saturday morning.

We are both the light that shines through an empty room;
And the shadows that lurk in the corners.

And although we may never be whole;
We know in some way we are;
And I think that is beautiful.