This is a test.

This is merely a test.
Do I have what it takes to express the thoughts weaving throughout my mind, my heart, my very soul.
A quote by Charles Bukowski.
"If it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it"
My thoughts to the words of this sentence was "wow how pretentious to write such a thing", but as I mused my thoughts upon the words of Charles Bukowski, and by putting them into a perspective of gauging the writing and creativity of others: I saw, heard, and understood (for the first time) the voice of this wonderful writer from this single sentence.
I find myself yearning for a truly epic tale of adventure and love, science and myths, history; present; and the future. Yet, All I hear, see, and feel is an ocean of mediocrity with it's dull and ever encompassing waves cascading over the isles of significant repute, it leaves me with this thirsting hunger for so much more. Am I pretentious? Am I delusional in thinking that I'm any better then these writers whom spew out such awkward and overly-sensitive trash? Yet, in the fantastical recesses of my mind I see worlds filled with these stories. Worlds where catastrophes have devastated the earth, though the blood-lust of humanity, the "divine"-intervention of the cosmos, and the wrath of mother-nature. But in face of those trials that the characters of these stories move to; steadfast, hopeful, and naive in the terrible events that have and have yet to come.
This is merely a test. A small test of little time, of optimism and inhibited modesty of creativity.