Soliloquy of Solitude

     My tools begin to fail even as I try to expunge the grappling emotions within me. Technology proves that advances may have their downfalls. A pencil has no keys to fail it.
     And all communication is hampered by distance. Like old age to man, the divide between you and I may kill my message before it nears your ear. My words grow geriatric, withering on the vine. Untasted. All circumlocutions become wasted effort.

     It would be a fair observance that many syllables do not make up for little intellect, but often leave a taste of pretension whether accurate or not. Is a message invalidated by an untrue image of the writer? Can the writer be removed from his words any more than the dancer from her dance? Or could I possibly be openly truthful about that which I think without fear?

     Fear has always been a great muse.

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