It has the ability to become a narrator of life; the capability of allowing it to be truly lived instead of just survived.
It’s much easier to see the faults in something, or someone, than to admit I have a barrage of my own.
I put the pressure of perfection into each to-do and end up feeling hopeless when the reality of imperfection comes through.
It feels as if the weight is inescapable and the darkness beneath it, blinding. Slowly, it’s suffocating you.
we are lost in wonder as to what you would have been.
so, if something I post is about a high school experience and the next is about when I turned eight, know that I am a work in progress.