Here I am again. Despite all my failures, I’m still here. It’s opportune to wonder why am I still trying when I’ve proved it once and again how writing is a skill I’m not really good at. When I have the courage to read my previous texts, my previous attempts, I find in them a mess of undeveloped thoughts and unfinished sequences and gross grammar mistakes. Why do I keep trying?
Maybe it’s hope. Or faith. New chances bring me the opportunity to try to achieve the results I see in my head. Despite failing, it still works in my head, and although foolish, it gives me strength to test these new attempts to materialize the quintessences in my head. Though I fail here, my thoughts still prosper. It’s my aim, to find in my texts something that can be compared to how it works in my mind. Maybe it’s not as pale as it was one year ago since I’ve got so many new ideas to help me control it all. I’m witnessing more frequent spins, but I’m far from something I’d be comfortable with.
The novelties and refreshing things always make me willing to try again, they give me new strength, and they summon that red enthusiasm. It might be a fiery clash between Vesta and Hephaestus, but it’s really important for me to have his foolish ambitions, ignoring all the signs that I should have stopped a long way ago. I bet I’ve been pathetic and ridiculous before, but even though it hurts to think so, I’m still here. It’s become an activity I feel good about doing, so I end up forgetting about it (though awkwardly realizing it afterwards). It’s surprising to find how beneficial this kind of stupid strength works.