I thought of how I’ve daydreamed my way through life, always with parallel scenarios running on delay in my head.
I know I am a writer, and, yet, insecurity dogs me; insecurity, and curiousity, and questions, and this tendency to pick at things, and pain so big it feels like it might swallow me sometimes.
I know I am a writer, because, through it all, I write.
Richness. I'm surrounded by Kings and Queens who don't even know how much I want to dance in their courts. How happy I'd be just being a prince.
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