Submit2God

a rough musing this time around, I don’t feel like editing it. so don’t judge me to harshly.

Nothing crushes the spirit of progress more than the understanding that you are writing trash. I have a desperate fear that I am not on the right path. My writing is waning, not waxing. No eloquence is sprinkled in anymore. The life of flame has left the corpse I hoped to breathe life into. Like dr. Frankenstein I worked on my creation, fixation on its perfection and beauty, yet when life was breathed into its cold corpse I found that life does not suit it. it is a horror, living amalgam of those stories I love best, whose graves I robbed. picking and choosing the best assortment of appendages, the head of Karsa, the torso of leibowitz, arms of bradbury and sanderson the lightning that sparks a soul. A horror, living half malformed and twisted. Yet I must finish it. And I will. For you my theater of empty seats, and for myself.