My life is a collection of opening and closing lines.
My mind is a novelist who seems to have left out the body of its work. As my body picks up and quickly abandons projects and hopes and dreams, so does my mind.
I turn North, South, East, Westwithin each object my eyes land upon is a story I see it, I feel it. I have just to pick a public medium and share my private thoughts. And finish them.
My internal artist pounds on its cranial cageRelease me! It cries. Youve trapped me inside here with so many others and Im running out of air!
Indeed, that is the ideaIve been told Im especially talented a modern-day Renaissance Woman, if you will. And I exercise those talents?
Sparingly. Rather than showcase my talents by using them, I imprison them in my mind, where they become a pile of lost potential.
And I have the audacity to boast of my amazing potential, creating another more conspicuous pile of bullshit!
Yes, bullshit. Potential is nothing without action to make it useful. The
most successful man in this world (measure that in money or happiness;
thats your own choice) didnt get to his position with potential. You seeeveryone has potential (we must be born with it) even a bum hiccupping in a city alley. Those that truly stand out are those with potential converters.
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