Ink Letters On Paper

Tonight is alive with the possibility of excitement and joyous revelry among friends. Music is playing softly, calling on forgotten memories of past mistakes and triumphs. What makes these nights keep on coming? What makes us move on and create new lives and new stories? All I can do is compile a world of memories, of stories of the marvelously mundane. Somewhere between the motion and the act lies reality. My days are filled with the moment between the potency and the existence. I'm in an era of inbetween, between adolescence and adulthood, between whatever you call now and real life. The future holds endless potential for success and failure, but for now I don't worry. I am the hollow man, paralyzed force, gesture without motion in the winter of my discontent broken only by the summer of my greatest joy. My reality is made of ink letters on paper, of digital sound on a disk, and of flashes of light captured on celluloid. Tonight is ending, not on desperation, but on hope of deliverance. Tomorrow will come, and another day arrives with more stories to tell, and more life to live.