one with nature, none with love . . .
my flowers are dying . . .
flowers, such as myself, live off of love . . .
they are dying . . .
as am i.
flowers, such as myself, live off of love . . .
they are dying . . .
as am i.
Words: Through The Eyes of a Writer
There is this movie; a movie about a man who wrote a book about a writer who found a book. The book which the writer had found was written by an old war-veteran; but he had not known this when he submitted it as his own. The writer of the book, the writer in the book and the old man all share one thing in common: they are all writers. Each had a story, and each story lead them to the craft. Each story began with love; and each ends with heartache and tears. I am a writer, and I too have one such story. It began at the end of an adventure I wished would never end. Like many others who had walked this path, I learned the hard way that love - the purest and strongest source of inspiration - can also be the most cursed. I fell in love with an idea; and the idea was beautiful. It was the idea of laying in bed beside the woman who kept my heart beating. It was the idea of waking up to my favourite dream every morning; the one where it's her lips that breathé life into my own at every ...
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