I don't write because I would do it well or it would come easily and naturally to me, and I don't do it because I have this amazing gift I urgently need to share with the world or for the fact that everything I write is golden and begs to be read. I guess I would consider myself a writer because even after days like today, when life laughs in my face, and makes sure I not only trip beneath its will, but fall flat on my face, I keep on writing anyway. Even when nothing I do shows any sign of progress, and I have burnt every bridge to every person I held dear, I pick up my pen and somehow, almost magically, a giant weight is lifted from my shoulders. Even when there is no more hope, and love has failed me once again, or one could argue, I have failed it, I make sure that all my days end with words on pages and not with tears on my cheeks. I have given my soul to you, I have bled my heart dry, and now, after all these years, it is evident that you, that this thing that is not a blog, is my only constant, and in a way - the love of my life. I guess what I'm trying to say is; thank you. Thank you for sticking with me through thin and thick. Thank you for giving a hopelessly lost wanderer the courage to wander till the end of his days.
