Born.

Clutching on to self importance is no easy feat. I pull my pen, my paper, my thoughts, away from prying eyes. Where does self importance take me, beyond isolation, beyond solitude? Self importance takes me away towards the letters I write myself. No, I separate myself from my peers and from my past through the ink waste and the keyboard I fondle. I am old. I am aging. I am alone. My only friends are the white pages staring me down. The more I think, the more I dream, the further adrift I become and for me, that is what it means to write.