Author S. K. Nicholas

There was a time when writing didn’t mean that much to me; when I could go months without putting pen to paper and feel not one ounce of regret. To think of those seasons when to conjure words was of no interest; when my passion wasn’t for imagination, but for wasting hours doing not much of anything. Such desires are still with me. I miss those days of frolicking with a lover- of fucking with no care of what the days ahead would bring. To exist in the moment and dedicate oneself to the sense of self without caring for what follows- if I could, I’d do it again and again. But, alas, guilt has a way of changing you. It has changed me more than anything. Sometimes, I resent its intervention, and at others, I’m thankful for having my eyes opened. What a dance this is where we can never belong where our hearts yearn to be. It’s either one extreme or the other, but never both. Oh, to become a writer of merit while enjoying the love of a beautiful woman. To write prose that has the power to touch the lives of others while chasing a lover through that field of golden corn that forever eludes. To taste blood-red lips as larks circle overhead on afternoons where I’m halfway between delight and despair while writing to keep those tiger claws from out of my back. Am I to be measured by the warmth of my heart, or by the number of ghosts that haunt my every step? Is my life to be judged upon the pain I have caused, or by the kindness I have shown when no one else was looking? This is the dilemma that both drives and shackles. Maybe I’ve wasted my life dreaming, or perhaps I’ve been conditioning myself for a future based on faith over design. There are no easy solutions. No answers to anything that ails me.