Rage doesn't help. Sorrow doesn't, either. Both reactions are appropriate.
I guess the story arc I'm writing is just...life.
I thought about making my own header image, but I happened upon this one, and I have a cube thing, so here we are.
It wears you down, doesn't it? Little things you didn't even know you valued.
If I want to be able to draw the way I draw in my head, I'll draw the damn circles.
It always comes back to the personal, doesn't it?
I've learned that dreams can cripple you. But maybe only if you let them.
You can do anything in a story. And people can absolutely call you on your shit.
I wanted readers to have a conclusion of sorts, even if in my mind the story wasn't finished.
I've seen too much, and I've lost too many. And too much of me still wants to fix it.