Sometimes, someone will insist that your book is not finished. So, they go and they fish it out of the seas; they hold it over you, wringing out their words while drenching you in your own stream of consciousness. Those old words ~ profane and cruel ~ falling torrential all around you; most searing upon contact. As the steam rises from your flesh, you can feel the sting all over again with the rawness of I'msorry reading like a burning rash all over your body.
Now, those pages in your book are completely empty ... like you.
See, you have more room to write. The book isn't over. Now, write the good part, they insist. Write as it should have been all along.
All you can think of is the seas. How you have been prepared for the saltwater. How the weight of the all their words would keep you anchored below...
