The Fisherman

For the same reason I am a poor fisherman I am a poor writer. Instead of touching fly to water, pen to paper, I spend too much time watching and waiting for the world to turn perfect. Stuck between inconsolable tragedies and improbable fantasies, while the world stays steady on its course; indifferent to my grand plans for it. Too much of life is spent dicking around playing some excruciating game of “Let’s Pretend”. As a writer and a fisherman I, by my very virtue, am the biggest fraud of all. Neither the writer nor the fisherman ever lets something as trivial as the truth get in the way of a good story.
Both cynical and romantic. Convincing others to seek shelter with the utmost conviction while I trudge farther into the waves clinging barely to life and damned miserable hope. Certain that everyone else should surrender, while just as suredly, I can defeat a thousand man army with only a blade made from a donkeys jawbone. One day I will die and my ashes will fade out over the sea, words will keep You etched imortally in time and neither cynical acceptance nor romantic delusion will halt this tragic birthright. The cynic in me curses the inevitability, but the romantic plots the possibilities.
The more I write and the more I fish the more I discover that I know hardly anything. For the fisherman there is always one more cast, the writer one more line and the end is always nearer than you think.


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