It’s never enough. Physical or mental exhaustion claim me well before my imagination surrenders… It’s a frustration, and too much caffeine does no more than loan an hour from tomorrow, which I then have to pay back with interest.
Time passes, word count grows, and the clock ticks down. I’ve not enough hours to write all the words inside but, then again, none of us do. I wonder if the words I write will fade soon after I do. It’d be good to think otherwise, but I doubt I’ll feature as more than an anecdote or two in some relative’s conversation until, a generation passes, and it’ll be as if I never was.
Well, scary or liberating. – It suggests that perhaps nothing we do will count for anything in the long run, so we can do as we want… I know, I choose to write.
Perhaps out there, somewhere, someone will choose to read, and then I will be immortal.