Adrian Faye

If you don't learn to write your own story, someone else will write it for you

I cannot be put into words. My heart is the most complex of creatures. My eyes have seen and my lips have tasted, and yet I endure. My heart has been torn to pieces, and still I breathe. In a world of utter confusion, I seek truth. I am constant. My love knows no end, and that is my harmatia. Love knows no game in me, and no one keeps my heart. My life is a piece of art to behold, and my heart a museum of loves. My names are protector, lover, confidant, friend, and home. I am the embodiment of passion. I am ever-loving, all-enduring, self-sacrificing, and forever-patient. I seek solice in one of pure intentions, deliberate heart, and same mind. Can one exist, or am I left alone with my own sophistication on this dying rock, fated to wander until the end of my day? If I must solitarily wander into that good night, I will not go gentle. My friends are Plato, Chopin, Shakespeare, and van Gogh. I am, if nothing else, a hopeless romantic, relentlessly seeking my beloved.