My feelings of melancholy come, like ripples on a placid lake, in waves.

I see the human experience as an examination of despair. Between moments of grief and melancholy lay an understanding of living purposefully. A constant justification of why existence is a matter worth considering. And so, in regards to finding some sort of substantive meaning behind the series of stochastic events that seemingly happens to us, I wonder.

I write because I want to create insight. Although the effects of my writing cannot be tangibly observed in my day-to-day life, I hope that one day, like the thought of slowly building an invisible castle that could never be seen, that my writing would give me some wisdom on the consequences of the series of arbitrary occurrences in my life.