Writing has been a gradient slop throughout the duration of my life; up and down the incline I have trekked as if I can truly never decide whether I am wise to experience the top of the mountains or the depths of the valleys. Emotional constipation singularly becomes the very discourse for the constant flux of intrigue andfrustration. As I write, I have become increasingly aware of the peaks and potholes I seem to skip across and fall into. In all my observations, I have been completely unaware of this phenomenon, which is not entirely elusive as it sounds.

Occasionally the tools are with me as I trudge up to the summit, while other instances are not entirely fruitful. Yes, I have climbed the gradient angle, barehanded! Increasingly stubborn and vision blocked by perfection, downed out by the voices of comparison.

As this lingers, I am nagged with a futile notion, that I have completely missed the point again.