But what is it you want?
The voice rings in my ears, echoes of the same question badgered at my every creation, my every turn. What is it I want, what is it I have to lose that I cannot bear to, where is the tension that makes this narrative a worthwhile way to spend a life, why should anyone care? A character in ink climbs across a hundred of my messy pages trying only to avoid life, trying only to react when it happens, and you wonder if she isn't more a symptom than a gift, wonder if she isn't a message you are desperately trying to deliver to yourself.
I know the chasm is so deep, I know the bottomless pain that resides there is enough to keep you from ever stepping off the middle of the road and risk falling in.
But what if instead of using mediocrity to douse the flames
you used the fire to fuel this one life into an explosion?
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