How do you know what you want to do with your life, when you know your entire life depends on creation? What do you do when there's no such thing as originality? What happens when the world has sucked out all you have left?
Digging deeper and deeper, hollowing out all the areas beneath my translucent skin, finding fragments I didn't know existed, twisted, distorted, bleeding. And others, slivers of hope lodged in the most inconvenient of places, impossible to get out and throw away. Maybe someday this will all amount to something. At the end of the horizon, maybe I'll find the fabled pot of gold that wasn't at the bottom of the rainbow.
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