Ambrocious
Forsaken
- Joined
- May 15, 2008
- Posts
- 1,358
- Reaction score
- 0
- Points
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- Location
- Nowhere...
- Website
- www.infowars.com
There are so many people out there writing stories and poetry and other things, who would even notice if I disappeared off the face of this dreary planet? Those same thoughts came into my head every single time I turned on my computer specifically made to write stories and other snippets of visual choreography wrapped gently together like a rose petal over soft ice cream. Every time I begin to write something...all imagination suddenly drains from me and I find myself feeling all alone as I always am and I stop writing because who really will read it and who really will care?
I see people every day skittering about; doing the same things that they always have done and seeing the same old bull shit that they always see. Nothing ever changes in the discrepancies of time except the fact that things are getting worse. And I have to ask myself the simple question of why?
Why is it that some people can be happy and enjoy life and run around all day long enjoying things while I feel the shadow as if it were a blanket over my head? Why is it that I have lost the desire to craft beautifully written chorus's of literature that makes a ready desire to live in that sort of way and be that sort of person? How is it that I have lost the sight into the endless love and sharpened dreams of joy while others rise up and hold onto the golden amulets I like to call success?
Why is it that some people can write forever...like Stephen King. Some people never tire of these things and the imagination goes dark in my period of life but others move onward; blissfully unaware that a death of an author has occurred.
And your's truly is tired of a life of no reward...for what else is left to live for if there is no joy left to even remember?
I see people every day skittering about; doing the same things that they always have done and seeing the same old bull shit that they always see. Nothing ever changes in the discrepancies of time except the fact that things are getting worse. And I have to ask myself the simple question of why?
Why is it that some people can be happy and enjoy life and run around all day long enjoying things while I feel the shadow as if it were a blanket over my head? Why is it that I have lost the desire to craft beautifully written chorus's of literature that makes a ready desire to live in that sort of way and be that sort of person? How is it that I have lost the sight into the endless love and sharpened dreams of joy while others rise up and hold onto the golden amulets I like to call success?
Why is it that some people can write forever...like Stephen King. Some people never tire of these things and the imagination goes dark in my period of life but others move onward; blissfully unaware that a death of an author has occurred.
And your's truly is tired of a life of no reward...for what else is left to live for if there is no joy left to even remember?










