About two years ago I realized that the one thing that makes my heart race at full throttle is writing. At that time I was hesitant to tell people about this insatiable passion of mine because of many uncertainties and insecurities. I never actually dared to dream to be a writer or an author because for me, that cake only belongs to professionals, to those who took a writing degree or were trained to be such. As for me, the closest thing to training that I ever had is ranting in my diary. So I doubted my capabilities and contended myself with blogging recklessly.
But like any wildfire, my want to compose, be it prose or poetry, is unstoppable. And now without reservations I say out loud and out proud that I want to be an author. This is my dream, in the most selfish way possible. This is something that I want to do during times of boredom and excitement alike, at times of intellectual drought or spring, and for as long as I shall be able to conjure any insight at all. Because when my eyelids close I see myself writing.
o.k.
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