I was burdened with an ever-growing heart on the verge of decay. To save myself, I had to give many pieces of my love away. I hope I can give it all to someone, someday.
I realized the world around me was fragmented and broken... I had to be gentle enough not to scrape against the jagged pieces. I would not be cut today.
It was the end for something. It was the beginning for another. But in reality it just fell in the middle. In that confusing moment of time between my birth and my death.
That last bit of hope always lingered as a stubborn thread. Every time I would try to cut it I would feel it... a pulse. My pulse. My blood is hope.
And in my novels I live many lives. Substitutes of spontaneity to replace a dreary reality. How I live for those inky black words and kaleidoscope colored experiences.