Passion is the thing that kills the soul.
The day the music died, I was seventeen– staring down at a blank page, bleeding letters I’d never write. Bleeding sentences that die at my fingertips. I am more butcher than writer. More murderer than artist. For every word I kill on the tip of my tongue, I taste more and more like a graveyard. And it is pointless. This chase against mortality, this race against time, to breathe my passion till I reek of it. And I’ll die in a grave with someone else’s writing carved into my headstone. Years down the line, no one will know I was a memoir of stories that were never mine, poems that humanized empty temples, and articles that I’d written with truth as my god.
I was not born a writer. But I will die as one.