Passionate things are just that.

As writers and artists, of every kind, but especially those of us who are without discipline, we run a perpetual risk of judgement for our honesty. By honesty I mean, of course, our selfish need to vent at all costs, and by judgement I do not mean criticism. I mean judgement. I mean that we will, inevitably, tell our own truth as we know it to be and we will absolutely hurt someone else by it. Be it the ego, the absurdity of our perception, or the complete exposure that our diary-esque rooftop rantings beget, blood will surely trickle if not spray from the proverbial throats of those who we take with us out into the open. We dump our panty drawers from skyscrapers and you can only hope that any of your love letters we had stowed in there years ago had long been burned before we ever hit the stairs. To you I apologize. Any and all of you, who ever dared get near us at the risk of becoming our muse. Flattering in theory, the truth is that you will most certainly hate us for being the exact thing that you loved and wanted about us back when you loved and wanted it. So I say this with sincerity. Please do not take offense to passionate creatures doing what we do. We love you. Sometimes we love you threadbare. Sometimes we love you in 1000 volts of fleeting white hot pops. We don’t want to hurt you, but we might. I apologize. To the rare few who know how to love us despite this, who can bare to see parts of themselves in our work as the honor that it sincerely is, you are saints.