A bunch of words put together
My feelings I finally let out
I think paragraphs have become somewhat unrelated
Writing has always been a sort of therapy for me. Sad, mad, happy, stressed, I always write things down to help me. It is more enjoyable to stay at home and write or type about anything I can think about.
I have always had a world of my own. I liked being alone and I liked making stories up. I loved going to the world I have created and live in peace and quiet inside it. I love being able to imagine things which are unlikely to happen, but would still be lovely to experience. I loved reading myths and fairy tales.
It has always been a dream of mine to be able to write a story and have it published one day; a book which I can put near my door, on the living room, and on the shelf inside my room in my future house, a book I can be proud of. I even remember my mom telling me to write and she’ll make sure it would get published. (You’re awesome, mom!) But as years pass, I started to forget about the dream, and only wish to carry on and graduate with the program I have chosen.
Back when I still wanted to write a story of fiction, I did try to. There were several drafts on my old computer of stories I cannot remember anymore. I never tried to publish them online, I never had the confidence to.
Nowadays, finally having the time to look back, I remembered all these dreams I wanted so much to fulfill.
I have given up on writing and having it published into a book, but I haven’t completely given up on my love for writing. Still, I want to be able to write articles and reports or maybe short blogs of whatever I can write about.
I want to write so no matter what I will write.