The days disappear. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I don’t look any older, yet I know I am. Thirty-one years, gone. Thousands of days escaped, along with thousands of dreams. With nothing to show except regret, there are times when it all gets too much. Writing. Love. The taste of beer as I gaze up at the sky searching for my favourite star. All those paths that were never taken, and all those that were. The lovers I’ve been with, and the ghosts they became. Years spent going through the motions, doing little more than silently squirming within my skin. It takes guts to believe in something that can’t be seen, even more so when you’re not even sure it exists. The silence only increases my doubts. It eats away, mocking at every opportunity. There’s something out there, though, I’m sure of it. Something that others can’t see, and as long as there’s air in my lungs, I’ll try my best to find it. Money means little to me, as does social acceptance. As long as I mean what I say, that’s all I can do. If others believe in my words, that’s all the motivation I need. It’s such a mess at times, and yet it always feels beautiful. Even the pain and desperation, it makes me feel alive in a world so obsessed with snuffing out all traces of wonder. To build your life around something that has no currency is a death wish. It’s horrified so many that have known me, yet they haven’t known me, not really. They see how I look, and they claim to know my heart, yet all they want is to fit in, to become like others. Maybe one day I’ll sell books, but it’s not about money or success, it’s about being honest and touching the lives of others who feel the same way. To reach out and hold hands with someone who looks beyond what is known. This reality is bunk. I’m after something more.