There’s truth in that

A writer has a duty and an obligation never to be understood by his own generation; convinced, as he is, that he has been born into an age of mediocrity, he believes that being understood would mean losing his chance of ever being considered a genius. A writer revises and rewrites each sentence many times. The vocabulary of the average man is made up of 3,000 words; a real writer never uses any of these, because there are another 189,000 in the dictionary, and he is not the average man.

Paulo Coelho, of these qualities, you do not have.

Litmus test

Apathetic to the movie, but the poem is kinda great… Much like the man.

INVICTUS
William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me
Black as the pit from pole to pole
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced, nor cried aloud
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me unafraid

It matters not how strait the gate
How charged with punishments the scroll
I am the master of my fate
I am the captain of my soul

Finesse

Inspired by Joachim (it happens more often than I care to admit)…

All evoke emotion and ambition – senses so strong that they might very well outweigh my abilities. This isn’t false modesty – little else is worse than falling short of expectations.

Acquired tastes

Not just Sting, but electrify – a marriage of music…

COME AGAIN: SWEET LOVE DOTH NOW INVITE
John Dowland

Come again
Sweet love doth now invite
Thy graces that refrain
To do me due delight
To see, to hear, to touch, to kiss, to die
With thee again in sweetest sympathy

Come again
That I may cease to mourn
Through thy unkind disdain
For now left and forlorn
I sit, I sigh, I weep, I faint, I die
In deadly pain and endless misery

All the day
The sun that lends me shine
By frowns do cause me pine
And feeds me with delay
Her smiles, my springs, that makes my joy to grow
Her frowns the winters of my woe

All the night
My sleeps are full of dreams
My eyes are full of streams
My heart takes no delight
To see the fruits and joys that some do find
And mark the storms are me assign’d

Out alas
My faith is ever true
Yet will she never rue
Nor yield me any grace
Her eyes of fire, her heart of flint is made
Whom tears, nor truth may once invade

Gentle love
Draw forth thy wounding dart
Thou canst not pierce her heart
For I that to approve
By sighs and tears more hot than are thy shafts
Did tempt while she for triumph laughs

Calling

Am I suppose to experience fear? It throws off the equilibrium I have carefully arranged, not to mention everything I have held close to my heart.