Letter #2: 8/24/22
Writing. Passion. These two inclined so much to each other.
A heavy heart grip my neck as my tears started to fall down my cheeks.
You know when you read your works, and you found yourself listening to many voices, whispering to you how ugly the pieces you bleed your heart out, hearing that it's not worthy; that's it ugly. So, you shower yourself with self-doubts, and you willingly feel it through your bones.
Because when voices get too loud, any compliments will only echo, because you listen to what you feel, and that is your masterpiece is ugly.
I wanted to be a writer, a good writer, but everything I've done only prevails to self-doubts, that this masterpiece I called, trash is what they name it.
