Sky remained in its overcast and his melancholy returned. He told himself he didn’t know why, but maybe he lied. It was a sadness of doubt, a questioning of hope, when one believes, then fears—perhaps I’m wrong. To give in hope and act in faith—to share and make one’s art—these are what one controls. The rest—reception, interpretation, meaning to another—is beyond one’s self.
Authenticity, some it scares away; but it’s the only way one finds the few true and meant for you.
He reminded himself of this, writing and creating still; but the cold of a doubt remained as sun stayed hidden, its light descending, somewhere in the gray.