“Give me that man that is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him in my heart’s core.”
- Hamlet
The first wreckage
What do you write for your first blog? Where are the words when you need them, huh? What brought me here was a long-suffering, a desperation I suppose, as people we believe that eventually it'll all end - but what does that ending look like. Is it...a fantasy? A family? Perhaps it's just silence...an echo of water filling your ears as quite is encased throughout our being, no way out. I'm in no way a saint, but how could our lives be such wreckage? Why is it that we live in the shambles of our ancestory mirrors? Perhaps the mad aren't really mad.... perhaps, just perhaps The Hatter was the most sane being we'd ever come across in our existence. He was a china vase wrecked and shattered to the finest of porcelain pieces...but he still held it together. How is that? As Alice once said: "I knew who I was this morning, but I've changed a few times since then." I keep changing. The world keeps spinning, And Evenessence seems to be the only grou...
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