I was tortured by the horror of doubt rising like a ferocious tide: I had lost all meaning and and sense of direction in every seeming aspect of my life. I was consumed by a desire to become something greater than the mundane that I had surrounded my genius with, yet at every door I was without a key. My art failed me. My words fell flat against my own ears. WHO WOULD LISTEN TO A WRITER THAT COULD NOT THINK? My talents haunted me simply to remind me of everything that I was NOT. I would rot in this vanity. Like narcissus consumed by his reflection in the pool, every day my image grew more tenacious with its maddening taunts. I WAS GOING NOWHERE.
No comments:
Post a Comment