Author S. K. Nicholas

I am my faults and failings, and I wear them like scars. I am my boredom and lack of interest, and there is nothing to be ashamed of because I write from the heart and nothing else matters. There is love sometimes. There is a passion that burns and simmers, but I do my best to dampen it because it’ll wear me out like it has so many times before. Sometimes the urge and obsession to express myself with words leaves me disillusioned, and I want nothing more than to turn my back on it and settle down with a woman who can help nurse me back to health like she would a bird that’s fallen from its nest and broken its wing. But who am I kidding? I couldn’t quit this thing now, it has become me, and there’s no way back to the man who used to be me. And anyway, what kind of woman would be prepared to not only be my lover but be my mother as well? I am a man-child. A greedy loon with no need for social niceties and a fondness for solitude and the macabre and the study of the science of silence. There was a time when I would do my best to present myself to the world in a desirable manner. I’d iron out my flaws and give my best smile showing everyone that this was a guy you could trust, and above all, this was a guy that reeked of normality. But yeah, those days are behind me. I’m the king of losers. A ne’er-do-well who wears his badge of complacency with no sense of shame, but I have a way with words and feelings that give my vision a kick. I’m not Shakespeare, and I’ll never be King, but I will be someone who stood up and said no. Fuck you, I’m going to do this my way. I speak what I desire, honey, and it doesn’t matter how long it takes these seeds to grow, but grow they will I know. And that’s the problem I see with so many others. So few are prepared to make sacrifices for their art. For their souls. So many don’t believe in the soul full stop, and that says everything. But here I am, writing and pouring myself over these pages for no other reason than it makes me feel alive. Is it good enough? Does it mean anything? Does this anguish hold up in the grand scheme of things? Yes, it does.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com