I have nothing more to write when I'm losing track of my own desires. What can I say? Censorship has settled in my gut until you no longer feel anything. Romances scare me now, like movies. I see myself too often and they influence my life for a fleeting happiness or a fucking legend. last night I fucked so hard that I forgot to breathe. Under the covers, sweaty and spent my time, I'm exhausted by retaining my cries. I buried my face in the pillow and I have bitten as I bit the shoulder of the kidult once.
It is through the writings that I feel reborn and I write enough to feel alive. So I go out at night to confront my shyness and my naivety. I go to forget that life is written more like when its echoes reach into my bed. I now live the other side of my literary follies.
Emancipated past 17 years, I always feel the need to beg my creative independence. I would like to believe that one day I shall live without crutches, but I know that all these desires come from a need we did not teach me to fill. If one day I let down my pencil with you, make sure you choose the verbs that will guide your actions.
I am a junkie adventures unreal enough to describe them, detoxified by a love that nothing artificial. Yet, I lose, I get bogged down. And I would give my life to continue writing.
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