I want to be a writer.
I want to hike the limits of my mental spires, and re-gurgitate it into the written word for the masses to peruse at their leisure.
I want to enrage people, I want to enrapture them, I want to amplify ideas and charictaristics and mindsets until anyone reading the things I write can't help but formulate an opinion. Can't help but think. Even if it's only to think I am full of shit.
A dear friend of mine told me today that I have a gift for stringing words together. Bold, he said.
But really, is it anything new? I may be bold, but I seem to be treading where thousands of tired souls have traversed before.
I feel like it is a moot point. Is it too much to ask to want to change the world? To not just live and die, but to actually matter outside the tiny cell of my loved ones and enemies... that is my greatest desire.
So I write. I try to bridge the gap between mediocrity and genius with my paltry words. And everything I have isn't nearly enough to alter my fate, it seems.
All my passions will be nothing more than ash in an urn on my grandchildren's mantle.
12:11 a.m. - 2001-08-05
Recent entries:
cliffhanger - 2005-11-12
Mary - 2005-02-08
Border - 2004-07-26
Propaganda - 2004-02-20
Lifer - 2003-12-05
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