I'm separating myself from the things I’ve written, occasionally allowing a scan through the words, picking up a few sentences here and there. Convincing myself that whatever emotions and experiences I was able to get through then, I wouldn’t be able too now.
In a way, the person who wrote that doesn’t feel like me. Sure, if I allowed myself to read through I’d find a remarkable similarity, but at the present, I don’t. I sit at a distance, never giving myself the pleasure of getting to know the person at the other end.
Maybe I’ve told myself too many times that it’s an unattainable dream, to be a writer.Read More