You are a Writer, and This is Why You’re Here
There are two types of us…which one are you? And what will you do to get it?
It’s old.
This thing inside me.
I’m not sure what it’s trying to tell me most days. Or what it expects, from me or my time here.
The language it speaks is almost too eloquent for me to understand, and its wisdom too bold for me to grasp. My predecessors and modern heroes have emboldened its volume and forced me to look upon it.
But it’s what this thing has done to me emotionally that bothers me more. It tests my convictions and shakes my fortitude.
Its impatience provokes me and its age mocks the dismissal of my supposedly profound ambitions for life. It holds my guilt right in front of me and demands for me to soak in my frivolousness.
Whatever I am today is somehow attached to something older. This thing that has come to exist, this self-made unconscious creation.
An energy beyond me.
Before me.
…
Something is happening. But, also something that has happened. What I am now is somehow older than I am.
