This afternoon I wrote. The first thing I've written in a long time. It poured out of my fingertips. Felt good to create. The words didn't feel forced. It was poetry.
My love affair with poetry is far reaching. Is it a sign? Did the dream of grad school die because I'm just not a fiction writer? Is poetry my calling (oh god, I really am going to be poor)?
Does everyone feel awful at this age? This sense of being lost, of wanting to reject everything established? All I require is honesty and truth. Tell me where is the authenticity?