Saturday, 28 November 2009

What has writing about tragic love become, besides a spectacle for those who see it merely as a collection of well strung words and phrases, that benefit them through admiration of beauty, yet little else?
Does blindness possess those that know not of pain through use of literature?
Evidently so, as true as heartlessness seems to, also.
Yes indeed, every word carries nothing less than the very meaning of sincerity.
And yes, indeed, the subject matter is you.
So worry not, when you suggest that I should perhaps let it be known to them.
For I did.
And have.
Yet here I am.
Writing again, the perilless tales of the heart.

1 comment: