The Scribe’s Log

For twenty long agonizing years, I have forced myself to conjure up enough words to fill this voided parchment known only as “the paper”. My lackadaisical afternoons bring me nothing but overly exasperated nights, and still, it’s incomplete. I’m incomplete. What the hell am I even doing anymore? Has my beloved pastime become the bane of my existence?

I think not.

It was never for you, nor for your selfish entertainment; no, this passion is mine and mine alone. It’s my rock. My best friend. The only one who can truly understand me is me. My words, my heart, my sorrows, all wrapped up into a whimsical disaster full of madness and failure, and it’s all for me!

I’m sorry.

I love you, my readers, my fellow writers, those metaphorically on the brink of blowing a gasket, closing the book and dropping the pen. From my start, I have tried to reach you, connect with you on another wordly level with the hope that you reach back. Outstretch your arms. Let me take you by the hand. My writing is yours! It’s all for you! I will let you onboard my roller coaster of insanity, but I ask you not to judge. I wear my heart on my sleeve, my most sincere thoughts exposed, and your desires are my priority.

Just forgive me if I fail...