Jul 30, 2024
I miss being in love with words and beautiful prose. I miss typing out stories so enchanting they twist from ink to life, painting entire worlds with each stroke of the pen. I miss the thrill of the written word, the shiver of excitement that accompanied a newfound plot point.
But I fear that adoration has been eclipsed by a thirst for adulation—an ache for worldly acclaim that devours me whole, leaving behind the rotten carcass of a linguistic soul. A soul long buried and burned, laid to rest in the forgotten purgatory of withered pages and blotted ink.
For what good are words if they are never read? What good are stories if they are never told? What good is an author if they are never known?
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