All those versions of me I won't be able to be, weight terribly on my soul. Billions of words from thousands of stories I won't live, add up heavily burdening my tiny restless soul. This is how I feel today, tomorrow and yesterday.
Maybe it will be ok in the end.
The life I currently live is not at all the sort of life I imagined or expected when I was a bit younger.
Writing should come naturally. Just like all forms of arts and everything related to it. After all, art is breathing.
His eyes were fixed on mine. Searching for something I am not sure I can name. Maybe..I am not sure, but the look on his face was almost the same as he had looking at the sea and the sky. Maybe, only maybe, he was searching for that thread of hope that I needed.