They shall not be words which swirl around the mind for years to come; I doubt I have the wisdom to find any words to do so. They shall not be words to entice forth a laugh; humour is relative, and sometimes is out of place. They shall not be words to beckon tears of sorrow; the heart's emotions are difficult to capture with meagre sentences. But hopefully, they shall make someone, anyone, feel something. If I have any skill at all in crafting words, I hope it emerges now.
As yet the pages are unmarked, with only few paragraphs of scrawled handwriting to decorate them. The more I pen, the more the book shall seem sullied, but that shall not prevent me from pouring forth the world within my head. This time it must come out, it must be finished. This time, I have the potential to do so. When I am finished, I shall pass it onto someone else to read, and hope, as they come to the close of the plot, that it wasn't as bad as I feared it might be. I shall search their eyes and pray that there is something there to give me hope about my words. If not, then I will know that I have tried, and that it is perhaps one vocation I should not pursue.