i've always had a penchant for writing dark, melancholic stories: tales about the suffering, self-loathing protagonist reaching towards the light for his escape, only to be shut back into the cold, frigid blackness of his own heart.
i don't think that growing up has ever changed that about me.
i don't think it's a fascination with the morbid, but rather a fascination with how human beings are capable of ruining themselves from the inside out.
i'm not as young, naive or as fiery passionate as i used to be as a teenager, but i hold close to me my different experiences with romance – unrequited, manipulative, hurtful, shallow – and also my new love that is warm, honest, kind and joyful.
i wonder whether my new experiences with love with seep themselves into my writing, or if i will continue to write only about people that unwillingly hurt themselves?