The reason for his downfall has been clearly evident right from the start of this journey. He does not live his life like most, like he'd want to, like he knows he'd deserve. He does not strive for happiness or success. He does not abide by values that would cement him as a good person, nor does he hope to one day achieve an existence without burdens for others. In his core, he is simple, straightforward and as normal as one could imagine. He is a chaser of dreams, of moments captured in time, of breaths inhaled, and those taken away. He gathers these experiences and he fabricates them into words - ones that usually hold no significance. Yet these very words, these very fragile pieces of ink nourish him as profoundly as the air that fills his lungs. Without them, he is but skin and bones, propelled by a heart long disintegrated. Now the question remains; can he survive on words alone? On moments etched into sequences of events, flickering with flashes of life? Can he endure by himself what's meant to be fought by thousands? Can he transcend and truly make Her proud? Perhaps the answers are closer than he'd ever care to admit.
