Apology.

I am not a person you should put much stock into.
If you follow me and like my work, while that's great, you can see that I start something and do not finish it.
Be it because of writers block or I feel pressured, there's always an excuse and then eventually, I just never pick it up again. I've noticed this trend, you see.
When people read my work, I feel like I have to have it as something THEY like. Then it turns from something I enjoy doing, putting my heart into it, to something that I feel like people would like. I'm a people pleaser and it's my downfall.
I lose my passion.
I lose myself.

But despite that, the snippits of stories I do put up but never finish are fractions of the worlds, of the characters that are in my mind and awaiting further life in documents on my computer. I take my writing seriously and while I do not show anything but what I feel is my better work, I write nearly every day.

Little one-shots of a beast remembering what it's like to be a man.
A decaying, frail thing giving up.
A girl unable to look in the mirror without cringing.
A man whose life was torn from him and born anew.
A heart of evil finally beating when they find that one. special. person.

I have ideas, I have dreams, but I never let them see the light of day.
Because there are better writers, there are better artists; these stories, these /characters/ are my life. And I am selfish. I am self conscious. I am scared to show them to others for fear of what they might say.
"Wow, that's really messed up."
"How could they do that?
"Do you need help, mentally?"
Because I write the ugly truth. I write what some people are scared to, I write from the mindset of my character in the lives they've been born into. Would you believe me if I told you a Devil changed his entire being, his entire heart because he found 'the one'?
I know you want to.
But you're thinking, "everything he's ever known, everything he's ever done is forgiven because of /one/ person?"
And I will take that, and I will run with it. Because the truth is, a bad man may love deeply with all his heart, he may strive to keep his love alive, he may bury his past -- but he can't run from the blood on his hands. It is dripping; he is drowning.

And be it for the sake of trying to break free of the cage of depression, lack of self-esteem, I am going to start posting my writing more. All my little one-shots, my unfinished pieces of work. Because when you are a writer, you sit at your desk and you bleed; you bleed your heart into your work and whether or not you like it, you share it because that's how you become a writer.
You share it with the world and hope that someone, somewhere, is going to tell you, 'this opened my mind'.
-----------------------
I'm sorry that I can't finish what I start for you; I'm sorry that I am here and then I vanish and this, this part of this blog right here is directed at one person in particular, that I seem to always apologize to for doing this and she always smiles when I come back. And even though I don't say anything, even though it feels like I've vanished off the face of the Earth, I'm still here. I'm still reading, I'm still watching. I'm not the greatest person in the world and I'll never claim or strive to be. I just want to be a good friend, and I seem to fall short on that and I'm sorry.