There is no comfort, no regularity in going after the spectacular again and again and again. There is always a feeling, hypnotic even, enough to making me want to strive for that spectacular something with no knowledge of what it actually is. Tiring? It can be. Like you’re always moving and walking and yes, running, to somewhere and that somewhere just seems like both a step and miles away, altogether. And you think, how am I to know? There is no guide, not even a friend. Just you and this screaming sensation, like a promise telling you you’ll reach there, that somewhere. A promise you make unknowingly and break just as soon but keep coming back to, knowing you were meant to. Believing something for a somewhere. Blinded so boldly, I proclaim it my passion.
The life of roamer, craver for the creative.
Endless effort and bliss.