Waiting in Weights

No words I type here do justice to the direction I want to take. Every letter entered into this project casts out like a shadow after a candle. On the daily routines of living, how much is pre-ordained and destiny? Oft am I asked by myself about what to do and why. Am I who I think I am?

There's the feeling of having missed a chance to climb a ladder upwards above the fog-storm against knowledge, so now here I find myself being confronted by a force of a fork in the road - in the end. What am I trying to share by conveying such androgyny towards my own craft? In a basic sense of the word, I am formless. Not that I am free; like bottled air. I am inbetween the doorway with a foot for each side. To do what I want, it begins with a good massing of words, I have to write a book. Adventurous self-discovery is what that project is all about, to establish moments for momentos that will make more of me out of myself. True ingenuity it will take to make the art of imagining Native America 1491-1999. Afterwords, or in otherwords, I would create what I can out of my mentality. The drive to deliver the next Bioshock is a confliction upon its own that deems most people worthy in all their corners. Whenever I talk about such an accomplishment to be had, people will always assure me I am upon the rightful path. They will tell me about their experience with the series, show their love and dislikes of the series, then hope for what I am doing for the series. Some say it's amazing to have pulled such wonder from the muck, and others wonder why I am doing something like that - they question where they ought not. If I were to accomplish such a feat, a necessity would be geniality and formality for figuring out the next Bioshock. "A knowledge of the path cannot be substituted for putting one foot infront of the other." - Quote origin unknown-