Monday, May 16, 2011
In between each word my thoughts wait in the shadows. This is the mystery of literature. It is the marriage of thought and writing; and in writing thought is half lost, and in thinking writing is half lost. I would like to stand on my head and let the thoughts drip from my mind, leaving my darkest confessions in a wet mess on the page. I should learn to admire the paper in all its cosmic blankness. Instead, my hands shake until it is covered in ink and I have devoured all. And still I hunger.