writing again. i feel a little gothic here

Devotion. Actually having enough personal interest and effort. Knowing that there is a part of me that does really want this. That I really want this. I really want this. There hasn’t been much interest this year in what I could devote my time into however the effort was there in what I had been given as an opportunity. There is no satisfaction in looking back at anything that had begun since those that had had ended abruptly and at my fault. When the day begins now I wake and rise and wash and walk away. Only after hours of monotony does any remembrance begin to reappear as both flashes of memory, either because those instances of life matter emotionally or because that instance has to be recorded in my permanent record, and as a sirens song from oceans away continually enchanting my mind. There are times that others have heard the call from so far away, and those times I turn my head I turn I heart I turn my soul another direction, any direction, so that the femme recounting in admonition tales of lust and woe will know that I have lived such tales and that I will forever respite in agony and ecstasy at this soul who had outlived and ran from my own pasts devotion to a constant splendor in the grass. It may seem now that the effort I put into an either known interest or one to displace them all dwindles as those memories begin to resurface.