What would you write about at this hour?
Blank slate. Blank mind.
Background music. Background noise.
I forget I can write. Better than most. Most that I know. Clearly not mixing with the "write" crowd.
Pressure. Low. High. None. Do you feel it? Not what I seek. Not what I need. Fear, on the other hand, can drive one to do the unimaginable. The unthinkable. The never thought possible, but achievable.
I'm a realist. An imaginist. A dreamer only when I'm asleep.
Because realists know better and dreamers only hope for better.
The real world awaits, with a plateful of politics and sour grapes.
The meeting of real people. The unfazed and the two-faced. The sincere and the queer. The rich and the bitch.
My nouveau chapitre begins now. And I will wait no more.
To be published. To be heard. Not be rubbished or be stirred.
This is my book. My story. My life.
So read between the lines...