A WRITER DIES
It ends, it always has, it always will. The words float, on the web, or sit waiting on paper. Meaningless or meaningful, depends on the reader. The writer agonizes over each word, seeking acceptance, fearing rejection, understanding the risk of exposing one’s heart to the world.
Inspiration may be fleeting (mine has all but left); success even more scarce. But onward we tread, or not. Because it always ends . . . unless it doesn’t.
Through forests of doubt, non-acceptance, fear, and insecurities we walk the path, either well-worn or trampled by our feet first, only to have the vegetation recoil and cover our past; gone when we look back to find our way home.
But we will find our way home; scared, lonely, unsure of ourselves. And yes, we can go home again, but we shouldn’t expect it to be the same as when we left. Time passes, things change, and then it always ends . . . unless it doesn’t.
I pray, it never does.