I have not written in quite a whole, which is both worrying and intriguing. I tend to get concerned by these periods of ink drought for writing has been my saviour when I wasn’t saving myself and my ability with the pencils has always been a doubt.
I fear that my personal development – however minute – and my self reflection are making me more human.
I do not write because I’ve found the soul-well where I can allow myself to confess my sins and be blessed. I do not write because I’m afraid of the re-emergence of my demons – aptly named ‘Lord Ass’ and ‘Princess misjudgment’. My creations long for annihilation. I do not write when I’m not morose and by the heavens, I appreciate the emotional break.
Unfortunately, the break is nearing its abrupt ending. The well is regrettably tainted by past sinners and demons and she years to rid herself from mine.
So I write, completely oblivious of what will follow next or rather, of what will come sooner; The wrath of the maiden or the triumph of fiends or even my long awaited rise post the chosen free-fall.
I am writing. I wrote. Inhuman.
I bare the curse of driving the hearse.