My mind is reckless, in its thoughts, in its worries, in its composition for words. I was told I am good with words, being able to bring scenes to life, thoughts to motion but I highly doubt it, doubt that I do have that gift. The magic of words is not when you write it down on paper, or whatever medium people nowadays use (=)) but it is when someone feels the warmth of it, or the chill of the words as intended by the author.
The earliest memory I have of myself is watching myself colouring by the rail at my little table and feeling so contented. I actually feel the exact same way when I am colouring something at my table back home. It is a feeling so hard to pen down but perhaps you have felt that way when it is serene, your worries and baggage are left at the door, waiting to be picked up but not by you.
A dear friend hoped that my outlook towards humanity has changed recently. I can't actually confirm that it has changed, but there is definitely another road being built there, at the other side, where I might, just might view what I did differently. Time may not be on my side, but I don't want to rush it or I might just recoil and then it'll be wasted.
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