This is a blog that I've meant to write for a while, but never found the structure for it, really, how does one succinctly explain the long, winding, paved at times, deserted at others, paths I've walked? I don't even mean that to say that as some important adventurer scaling a sacred mountain.

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There isn't any great skill in writing blogs. Maybe in the good ones there are outlines and revisions present before the publishing. But for the most part. People write as they feel, as they think, as they crave to express and then do precisely that.

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There is something that rewards artists, sometimes more than the art and more than any sum of money, that grants them excitement and offers them bliss. It's such a small, easy thing that anybody can do—but few people are apt to do it.

We are, of course, talking comments.

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For the client that is reading this now, the one wonderful and witty, cheeky and bitchy, capable of not only pulling my chain but then holding me upside down: this blog honours you with a quip you spoke in jest that has forever remained the truth of my current existence.

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I'm not going to lie and say these past few days haven't been rough. Maybe even a month. I'd be willing to call it at a year so long as we can make it plural. It's my general state of mind to be tortured at itself despite its condition. Absurdity has gripped me tightly ever since high school.

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Hope. It's a word. The length to say it but a mere heartbeat. Hope is great and it is terrible. What often looks like hope in the distance will only lead you to despair. It's a wish, a desire bundled in warmth, a craving for something positive or good.

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I don't really get my hesitation to begin writing. It's like there's some invisible force stopping me from trying, from doing—from succeeding. Even in the writing of this passage, I see no cause for worry, for the words flow and my mind is waiting to be blown by some fucking macro.

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