Three years ago, I lost my totem of power; my pencil. For the past three years, my well of inspiration seemed to dry up and shrivel, mourning the loss of that one peice of my being. For two years, that pencil and I have been inseparable; conducting passions, weaving shadows, and turning it into cohesive thoughts and words. Most of these works are personal and will never see the light of day; some of them lost, burried in the dusts of the forgetful past; but I am proud of them, nonetheless. They have sprung within me and through me, they were given life, if even for a moment. The loss of my pencil; my wand; my staff; signaled the start of my diminishing dreams, my fabled fancies.
I'm still searching for that lost tool of creation; my muse; my song. But this time, I am hopeful. Though the object is lost, I realized that the source of its power has never left my side. It resides within the person and not the tool. So long as the core remains intact, the sense of wonder unspoilt, I will be able to bend reality to my will. We are the masters of our fate, and we will move mountains.
All we have to do is act.