I thirst for enduring flame. Not the flickering of inspirations that sweep me off my feet and head only to leave me embarrassed and wondering how did I get where I am.

I have yet to figure out how I can make the reward of writing tangible for myself so I can stick to the few writing projects I have yet to finish. It doesn’t help that I often feel like this act of scribing is a privilege reserved for the nauseously wealthy who have nothing better than to tell others what to think and feel. This speaks to the faulty mental strongholds that academics expose one to. I want to recover my tenderness.

That one I had when I believed that this scribing is bringing heaven on earth and that the next line might finally make God stay and never wander off.