nothing else but my heart's desire [COLLECTION] | FINISHED

I wish I were seventeen again - ORIGINAL PROSE

I miss when the world felt new, as though it were all mine to explore and conquer, as though it were all I could ever hope it could be and the possibilities for what it would be for me, how life would turn out were endless, limitless, though it were not to be.

I wish it felt so now, as I have grown older still and the world has turned sour, as though it were hellbent on breaking my spirit and forcing me into a box of conformity I had fought so hard to escape from, to break free from such restraints. 

I miss when I had the world at my fingertips, the world were mine to determine how it would shape me, for I would not allow others to dictate then how I felt and lived, how I would finally be able to break free from the shadow of the past and the rules instilled onto me from when I were very young, which meant I could only be as others wished me to be, how I never could simply be as I wished to be, for myself and only myself. 

I wish I had the fire still, the desire to run and never stop running, how I had this drive in me to achieve and never stop until I run out of breath, only to pick up and continue until the end of time, never looking back until I had no path left to travel, until life had left me and I returned once more to the soil below, upon my bed of roses and thorns, home from which all things had been and would always be from. 

I miss when I were seventeen, but the mindset shall always remain, I am able to see now, for the world is still mine and has never left, no matter how far I stray, for it is my life I can dictate, how I choose to live. It matters not the clothes I were, nor the music I listen to to walk through the trials and tribulations of life I have suffered through to get to this point on my journey, for I still breathe the same air I always have, and I still write using the same hands I have always have, and the eyes from which I have looked through to observe the world as a storyteller and teller of truths, both beautiful and cold, both happy and true, both complicated and sad, are still my own. 

Experienced they are now, having seen much more than I had known then, I shall still write as I have always done so, and will tell the same truths I have always told: Life is beautiful, sad, complex and true, and it is all my own to make of what I wish, no matter the words of others and how they perceive it.