...and work until it starts to shine. Through word play and multiple drafts, one sentence turns into many. They become paragraphs with meaning. Purpose. A message.

Before long garbage turns to gold. Words exposing the soul. About who I am. About what I do. Even if its fiction, that fiction came straight from inner truth. And I’ll hate it more than anyone around. They’ll love it because it was not made by them. But they got to see the things about me that I can’t express any other way. And they’ll like it even more if they relate. Because like me they struggle to say what they’d like to say.

The doubt in my ability to make things that’ll last and people...

The one thing I must consistently remind myself is that it’s okay to write something simple and light hearted.

Stressless.

Not every paragraph, sentence or letter needs to happen in a frantic existential crisis. It’s alright to move slow and write something meaningless. So long as the writing is enjoyed as often as it’s hated.

What good comes from existing in a perpetual panic mode?

I’m glad I obsessively refresh my thoughts on a regular basis. It reminds me to catch my breath and just let my mind wander from time to time.

To keep it simple.