On days where my energy feels best, I awaken early with a heart dedicated to my craft. I write and write until the words fail to reach an empty page, and each word serves its purpose to express an interest in the human condition, and I trust that every successful story ever told relies on a fair amount of imagination.
Some days, I feel less than prepared to achieve greatness, not because of any one thing like the burden of laziness, but moreover a mind that stirs greatly the alphabet and all the while organizing letters into words––who then join these trains of thought, and within minutes of an topic pondered, I have a running plot.
My life is a lot like a narrative arc, as ideas come to mind like a basic spark. I jot them down with a commitment to return to such a ponderance in a matter of time, and while I ensure that each thought comes to life—rightfully so, do I dare to dream. My protagonist always seems to have an ending with the means to live yet another day’s peace of mind, and somehow––I resolve the issues of life’s basic problems as a reason to write.
Each page succeeding another does a story appear before my very eyes, as I construct an imaginary world where my dreams are simply achievable goals, which lessons me through a reality of triumphs and failures alike but wielding a heart like mine—I must try.