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What if, to make sense of something felt, we must look beyond what's written, turn our heads, and exchange words, to understand what's trying to be conveyed and fly beyond the margins...
Then, if there's any reason to be found, I have a reason to close my eyes, dream, imagine, and survive... Or if it's all just folly, I'll stay silent, retract what I've said, withdraw my story and life, remain in the darkness, not making it colorful. If the supposed purpose of living is to be born, grow, and die, without loving or suffering, then what's the point of breathing? Life is made of choices, and many of them I've chosen wrong, but perhaps they are the reason I'm still here today, writing. Maybe they are the reason I still smile, feel, and live. If they make me cry, then that can only mean one thing... I'm still alive...
YOU ARE READING
wordsmith's manuscript
RomanceIn the shadows of his own existence, a teenager engulfed in solitude, still torn by the loss of his sister and the anguish of caring for a mentally debilitated mother, is summoned by his teacher to join an after-school writing group. There, amidst t...
