Accost of Living

So, I asked of my life, "What is it that you want from me?"

My life replied of me, "Everything that you achieve."

"And my friends?" I inquired, "Will you take what they achieve?"

My life looked at me shrewdly, "I will take no more than they are willing to give. For, they will not give more than such."

"Costly it is, to retain that attachment to me," I succumbed.

"Detrimental to them is it," life quipped, "the power of your personality."

"And if I requested that you leave them be, life of mine?"

"Then would I request of you to leave them."

We are the sum of everything we have done. Without each other we would be a death not worth remembering.

Submitting Defeat

To mentally slap yourself on the back of the head and state 'You idiot, you're looking at it wrong!', is a glorious moment.

I was so consumed with creating a perfect piece of work. I laugh at myself now. After all, I am an artist. And any artist worth their salt would tell you that they are their worst critic. I doubt that it is even possible to create perfection.

I must admit that it will never be perfect. My hope is that it will, at least, be complete before I die. Once complete, I can refine, expand, or define.

I have more ideas than can be contained within the one novel. What, exactly, is preventing me from making those others a side project? What is stopping them from just being little snippets of story?

I have sketches of drawings; what about 'sketches' of story? What about sketches of comic book pages?

Who knows? I may just sketch the exactly perfect thing to fit in that one, hypothetically, difficult point in the story.

Was I really so determined to let this die?