I feel restless today. There is something bugging me. I feel like my skin isn't fitting me, and that the temperature see-saws between too hot and too cold.

Truth is that I just feel restless.

Writing, the art of creating, without anyone to share, to feedback, what a terrifying thing to do. I wonder about the writers who can do that. Who isolate themselves and simply churn out book after book.

I'm not much of a planner. Well, I do plan, but I never seem to be able to follow the plan. As soon as I come up with the direction, all my energy seems to leave me. The actual writing, that is, to place word after word after word, to walk along the writing path and make something out of nothing, it is a burden I willingly carry.

I do not use the word 'burden' in this scenario lightly. It's bloody painful. I want to write, but the very act of writing seems to disagree with me. When I try to focus on one work, another calls out to me, like a siren call. Perhaps I am simply greedy.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

It doesn't matter. What I want to say is that, the bloody Wait, in between the start and the finish, it is simply grueling. To step at the start line and run that in-between marathon, to feel blood screaming and muscle burning, but the brain singing: 'go forward! go forward!', this willing tortuous pressure to receive goodwill and applause -

- but I get ahead of myself. First and foremost writing is for me. I chase fame, yes, I chase the thrill, because at the end of the marathon no matter my result my body sings in exultation of a high borne from the journey, not the goal, but. But. First and foremost, I chose this. I chose to do this. I choose to. It's not something that was chosen for me, no outside interference.

I chose this, and the Wait is still bloody annoying, and so this is a complaint.

Writing is hard.

I will write poetry borne from blood and sweat and pure will, and in return all exultation pales in comparison to its completion, because I did it.

I did it.

I am not a failure.

That is a morbid way of putting it. I know that I right now, am not a failure. I suppose... I need something concrete.

My work is on the way. I just... just Wait.