So much to love yet little do we endure. We make these lists of what we wish and the year turns end. Lists remain and moments lost so quick. Play the piano, learn french, pick up and go. But no we wait as if for a lost date. Looking up hoping he will turn up.
Sing that song, write that story. It will most likely be terrible. Torture the cats if you must. Perhaps it is not the accolades but the need to create. Maybe we just need to explore with brushes of paint. Go on that journey in your mind. Explore strokes that are alive.
Long not, flicker more that candle stick. In the smoke are works of hope. Remake your tale and write it well. You are the only reader that matters. Scatter, scribble and let it come out. Leave not books unread. Take them one by one and press each page. Embrace beauty in art.