This week ticks by so slowly. The drib drab of another day seeping through the sand timer, and what do I get in return? A few more words written on a virtual page, tucked away in an obscure corner of the internet.

I wonder when did words stop being enough? I wonder how words were ever enough in the first place. As if symbols on a page could ever hope to make up for a reality at odds with everything i am.

I dont want to JUST write anymore. I don't want to JUST do anything. I want to eat all corners of the cake. I want the whole thing for myself, not just the corner labelled "writer". I don't want my destiny at the exclusion of everything else life has to offer:

sex, drugs, fire, passion, love, career, friends, family, music, art, literature, property, piercings, travel, experiences.

Funny really, how wanting everthing is the closest thing to wanting nothing.