I’m here again. Staring at this blank screen like it holds all the answers I can’t find. My phone feels heavier tonight—maybe because it’s carrying the weight of the words I’ve yet to write.
I’ve done this so many times before. Scribbled stories on scratch papers, wrote dreams in between lines of old notebooks, poured pieces of myself through a ballpen that knew more secrets than people did. But finishing them? That’s where I always get stuck. Two stories. Maybe three. The rest... just quiet endings with no goodbye.
That’s why I haven’t been around much—not in my diary, not even here in this space where my POV used to live freely.
If you’re reading this now, thank you. That already means more than you know. I’m not here to impress—just to show you how far my imagination reaches before it falls short.
And right now? My mind’s a room with no windows. I keep looking for light, but all I find is stillness.
So if this ends up like the rest of the years... unfinished... please know I tried. And maybe trying is still something.
YOU ARE READING
POV
Non-FictionLife often presents itself as a series of hurdles, each one taller than the last. These hurdles, though daunting, are not meant to break us but to shape us into who we are meant to be. It is through our darkest nights that we gain the strength to fa...
