Temperance and permanence.

Shhh. Do you hear that? Nor do I. It is the void. It’s hollow and empty, feeding upon the loneliness of a blank canvas yearning to be touched by the pen as the ink inside dries. If there exists a word to define the opposite of hemorrhage, I would drown it in the bathtub. My life is quite often lived under the direction of others. No, it isn’t the life I ever intended for myself and it isn’t the one I intend to invest much more of myself on. I have found that when you are dependable, you will be depended upon. So as it stands, my services and attention are constantly in such high demand that I hardly a moment to think, lest contribute, to my own works. I am a writer that does not write, a singer whose voice is cast in the role of delegating tasks and providing instruction. I am not a prisoner, I am a prison. I don’t need a catalyst; I need a caravan because the demons in my head are growing ever so restless. My creativity is clotting behind these painted, spackled walls. They won’t hold forever, they can’t. I can’t. There is a chill in the air, but it isn’t cold. A change is coming as I find myself, once again, bracing for impact.

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