Another 3 years have passed.
I've reached the edge of the cliff, and from now on, the next step will fall on air, a steep plunge into the realities of independent adulthood. A plant extends its feeble branches through the cracks in the rocks. Will I catch it in time? Or am I going to continue falling, but with a piece of leaf that's snapped in half between my fingers?
My lack of talent, I can't fix it. We're either born with or without talent. Born as an empty sack of meat, we are taught that skills can be obtained through learning, perfected through practice, but there exists things that can't be obtained. Like talent. You learn how to write once your clumsy fingers can grasp the pencil properly, and so does everyone else.
On the 11th of May, 2019 at 3:10AM, I have finally stopped believing in myself. It's time to stop pretending that I can be something which I can only dream of becoming. The embarrassment that is my writing, and I call it 'writing' only because of its form, doesn't deserve its own space. I have nothing to say.
Years of practice have amounted to nothing. Not that I tried. Do we lose sight of our dreams as we lose our vision with age? The thicker these lenses become, the cloudier the dreams appear.
I wonder if it's the same for her too. I wonder if she has anything to say, because those thin lips are always pressed together.
If another 3 years pass by and I'm still here, then you'll know that I will be seated on a cushioned chair, breathing, having achieved nothing.
