The days, as of late, have been filling up more—all the while these words beckoning to me, tugging at my arm, begging me to pursue. Teddy may be in Excelsis, but his existence remains mere fiction of mine, his life my satire. But what then is said of the satirist? How is he to come to terms with the limitations of his dimension? Of the many seasons forever unknowing—looking longingly at the stars, wondering if just to exist is knowing enough—the poet still only pours his heart out for things he knows will never be. How pointless it is to be sarcastic to oneself, Teddy thinks to himself, not knowing the terrible jab he’s just taken at the author, his creator. I am no different than Keats in the fruitlessness of my pursuit: He mused upon still moments in time depicted on a sylvan urn; I press buttons to create a character able to achieve the poet’s dream—but, alas, the dream is mine, as well. I am just as helpless, just as hopeless, as all those undying romantics who have long been left to forever wallow in their insatiability. So the days fill up and this need keeps tugging at my sleeve. How I both yearn and fear to take its hand, to follow where I know it leads.
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