I do not understand my obsession with the seemingly unattainable. That reachable dream that looms teasingly beyond my grasp. Everyone around me says it's all possible. I can do it if my will is resolute. But everything within tells me I'm a worm. A spec on the glasses of near-sighted critics that needs only to be wiped away. Of course I realize my sole purpose of writing is to share myself with the world, but in order for something to be shared it must be accepted by a second party. Otherwise it's just good intentions. I don't do it for the critics, of course, but that doesn't mean they won't do it to me. But then when I get to talking like this or thinking like this, I also get to thinking about how much time has passed since I began undertaking this lifelong process. The continual learning of the rules of wordplay. The formulas along with the instincts. And I realize that I've only been doing this for two years. Two years. That's not enough time for anyone to become proficient in this art -except Jack Kerouac, but that's just a case of genius. So I continue to play my inky scales on my poorly tuned keys. One day I'll hit the right chord and those keys will unlock the door to what I've been trying to find for years now.

My voice.

It calls from behind an unseen door in the recesses of my mind,

and all I can do is tear at the wall one pen-stroke at a time.