"Why does inspiration surface most when I am sad?" you ask. Once again it lingers in the air that hangs between you and I. Ever so soundlessly, I settle down next to you. I don't conjure up a response just yet, for I like to think silence has a better supposition.
They say our eyes are windows to the soul, yet when people look at yours they see nothing but psychedelic blinds. Each time you write a book about yourself, you choose to begin with a synopsis of white lies—only letting few lucky ones open to the dark truth it holds.
Today I shall give you a hint, my dear. The explanation to your question can be found in your very heart.
So when silence did not speak, the words escape my lips: "Perhaps it is because deep down, you are always sad."
