The forward to a recent start of a work I have been obsessively writing.
Some stories are never meant to be told, they glide wordlessly through time through the actions of every era, always felt but left breathlessly upon the unspoken thoughts. We seemingly forget tales that are felt by as all, always assuming that it is something new and it is only felt by a few, when in the end its the never ending tale of which we all feel.
A tale that will never end for it is passed to ever era under the guise of the unspoken words the thoughts that seemingly cannot pass over the lips of the ones that hold on to the pretext of sanity. A comfort in which very few will give up, the ones that hold not to the supposed sanity are hidden away the words falling listlessly into deaf ears and passing into the hollow halls to forever echo. What is the echo? Its the sound of millions of unasked questions echoing thought-out time. The answers just a breaths leap away but the question forever stuck between the lips of ones that cannot speak.
Without the right question how can we ever hope for the answer?