I could not sustain myself as an artist despite pouring blood straight from my heart, injecting my undiluted imagination, and stitching fragments of my soul into my literature yet that doesn't mean that I failed; as I shall elaborate on later. My cessation does not arrive upon the wake of recluse sales though that is a mote doleful and superficially so. Alas, without further ado (a phrase whose very nature is a further ado) I am tentatively retired from creating books. As I told a friend, the end of my biblio era has arrived due to a dearth of inspiration (which ties into a certain aspect of creative desire), endurance, and purpose (ex: would any more stories from me be unique to others' art besides being enrichening; and would mine be redundant to what I have already written)?
Yet even though I honestly can't percieve myself creating any more books, I realize that inspiration, endurance, and purpose could still arrive, (pertaining to the creation of any future books from I). Therefore it would be unwise to write off a possibility such as that no matter how certain it may seem otherwise. Anyways, this situation is excellent even if I don't create any more books since I already relayed an immense deal of value (and perhaps all I was meant to say) which isn't contingent upon any sale. Of blessed importance though was my ablity to inspire at least one soul through the gift which I was granted and that manifestation of grace supercedes any monetary gain. ☺️ ★★★ P.S. I shall still creatively write in various fashions. P.P.S. We are all blessed with talents, none less important (nor of a lesser beauty) than others.
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