Shifting right, then shifting left, the chains slapped metal. Crashing the cabin as the giant crates held firm. A hum from hell filled the cabin as the pilots threw the plane into a nosedive.

Holding my breath, I dive. Hitting the water, I do not swim, but sink. Down, down into the chasm of thought. Reds and pinks, violets and golds form, giving birth to a realm within. Colors shifting, worlds are born, characters are torn, pulled apart by the treachery of their environments.

A writer’s only concern is the search for truth.

As a writer, it is imperative to understand that you do not write for the current day but for the days beyond your years. Through the might of the pen, writers hold a singular ability. The power to immortalize others.

I can't stand school, but it's forced upon me.

The infantilism, stupid group projects, annoying little kids…

I'm too old for this shit. Too old to mold, too old to fool into believing strange things.

My teeth are worn, some are broken. The jaw mangled from tearing flesh and chopping meat.

The organs are old, but still working, Hearts still pumping, pushing the blood, flowing the mud beneath my skin.

It’s an open secret that writers hate each other. We nitpick, critique, judge, and sometimes quietly shit talk one another. All of this is done with class of course. Nasty little slights, strained smiles, subtle queues through body language, and perhaps in private… the occasional eye roll.