Lost Love Lust

To innocently log onto this technological piece of paper once more.

To give out thought, feeling, suppression.

Like the drawing of blood from the mind and soul, to write is a passion, a frustrating
yet beautiful obsession.

Perhaps a flower, that takes much time to fully blossom.

Often it can show realistic desire, or endless dreams in-accomplishable.

But in end, for what is writing existent?

To invoke feeling?

To braver the fearful soul?

To hide under flawless facades?

Understandably so, are the ones whom write blessed or cursed?

Is it we who forever remain the observers of stories untold, unseen, unheard?

Do we not but forever search the endless plain of words to befit the connection between emotion and description?

Nevertheless, in doing so, do we unknowingly forbid ourselves from truly feeling?

Can the happy manner of a writer expose perhaps the true loneliness that
suppresses him or her?

Perhaps years from now I will look upon this moment with an ironic smile, which I suppose fits my ironic personality, but in doing so, will I truly be happy?

Is it a possibility? A simple desire? Or an ultimate goal..?

Questions upon questions, seeking upon seeking, and yet no eminent answer.

I honestly cannot find the true destiny in all that takes place.

Utter purpose.

Reason.

None.

Whatsoever.

Yet, my passion continues, and my steps lead more and more towards the path unknown.

The place of no premeditation, tireless calculation, or meaningless sensation.

I have yet to meet its inhabitants.

Ah yes, and I also visited Walmart the other day.

(Insert ironic chuckle.)