To Tell a Tale
It is an odd thing being a writer. These moods where you can see your world so clearly, and yet to put it on the page defeats you at every turn. I at times wonder how long it will take to complete this story. And is it merely the ambition of my youth that drives me to write it as swiftly as possible. I have time for this, should I not allow it then?
It seems to me at times that life is too short to idle in this creation of mine. That I must complete it in order to move on to some new ambition, some other task to set for myself. And yet, at times like these, when the world is demanding I write it, demanding to have the world know its tale, I look in askance for patience. Patience in my own ambitions which, by my very nature, are nearly boundless. This tale requires time, and thought, and it must be crafted not only for me, but those who would read it.
The ambition to succeed must also be coupled with the patience and subtlety of timing. And these two things more than anything in the world, make for awkward bedfellows. Alas, this must come to an end as the voice falls every dimmer upon my inner ears, and soon the clamour will begin again, and I must either endure until I am ready, or pick up my pen again and tell the tale.
