And all I see is a blanck page.
And it calls me. It needs to be filled with words.
It screams. Write me it says. And my head tries to make something worth writting. Something worth reading, but I'm blocked, and I don't know what's missing, but that piece will make sense to all of this.
Is it him? I could write before that, I know I could. And I wrote with my soul, because there is no other way to write.
So what is it? Is it life?
No. There is life, and I'm feeling it, almost every day.
Almost. Maybee that is it. I should feel it all the time right? No. Definitely not. There are moments way better then others, that is what makes it worthed.
I'll figure it out. Not today, but one day I will.