“And if I only could, make a deal with God, and get him to swap our places…”

My fingertips bleed ink. It’s true. Well, not literally of course, but what an interesting if not useless mutant superpower that would be.

Figuratively, absolutely. My fingertips bleed ink.

Writing is cathartic, therapeutic, restorative. Hell, it’s transformative.

The point is, I need to write. I need to write just as I need to drink water or breathe oxygen. It is essential to my existence. It is something I’ve always enjoyed to do, but not something I have always made a priority.

I pay for that.

There’s always a price and the price that’s extracted from me for this neglect is a form of mind-racing misery — a reminder that time drips away and in its place is left a festering wound born of being unfulfilled.

My entire life has taken on a quality of fevered desperation.

Work. Home. Money. Love.

Desperate. All of it. So desperate.

I am desperate to succeed. I am desperate for change. I am desperate for fulfillment.

I often ponder death and the thing that bothers me the most about it is the prospect of having left something undone. I believe the only true fear I have is the chance of growing old without having pursued my passions, having settled for excuses that resulted in a half-realized life.

I have spent much of my life worrying about the future and that has blinded me to the opportunities of the present. That’s over. It must be. I have wasted enough of my life on worry.

I want to live. I want to dream. I want to do.

Stain the page.

A scrawled, smudged record of my being, my energy — a blot of thought.

My fingertips bleed ink.

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