The lost memory of a difficult truth.

[zachariahskylab]

If I could find that one quote written by Virginia Woolf, buried deep in her catechism, and bring it to light... place it on a pedestal, on the mantelpiece above the fireplace for all the guests in my life to see, it would express quite perfectly my failure as a human being. I would make a patch of it and wear it proudly as a living epitaph. The failure of the undeveloped poet to detach himself from the wheel of his own ego- only more succinct, more true, lost to my memory now and I cannot find it anywhere- even if I were to read everything she wrote a second time, quite likely I wouldn't recognize it, quite likely it wouldn't hold the same potency for me now that I've lost my drive, my ambition, my hunger.

I searched for hours and discovered only the hollowness of my childlike idealism. The ashes of my former passion have gone cold. I am not the stuff of diamonds.