I keep my goals to myself, preventing the assumed disappointment from others if I don’t achieve said dreams.
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.