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By Vishal Date: 2002 Mar 26 Comment on this Work [[2002.03.26.22.40.19700]] |
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There are very few things in my life that, given the chance I would do differently. There are even fewer things that I hold important enough to die for. Actually, scratch that, wrong word, live for. Living for someone or something is so much harder than dying for them, no? Let's talk about words now. Ever since I can remember I have read everything I can get my hands on, and either relished it with a grinding envy, or fought my way through it with weary contempt. Back of a cereal box, or the latest bestseller, Enid Blyton or Ayn Rand. There is only one thing I want to be, only one word that defines me; Writer I believe that no matter how great one's talent, there are only a certain amount of words any person has in their lifetime. A specific period of time before they lose their coherency, and the ability to articulate what is in the depths of their soul. I have already spent so many agonising hours, when the power of words have failed me. Infinite moments twirling my Mont Blanc (which was a gift from you) staring at a blank page. I regret every word I've ever written, that was wasted on you. |