My biggest regret in life so far is not having the guts to even start writing the stories that are overpopulating my mind.It's lame,but it's true.
Every single time I get some sort of "spark of genius",the phrase "it's all been done before" comes to mind and I just end up sitting there,paralyzed and utterly defeated.
I used to think I was special because I could write better than the people I knew and that defined me to a great extent.Then I started reading,researching,doubting-not big names,but people who weren't in textbooks or museums or popular culture.And I wept on the inside because I wasn't special anymore.
I was just a silly girl,holding on to her coffee and biscuits and literary fantasies.
This,this daily thing,this is a lie and I know it all too well.It's a glittery anchor that's distracting me from the sight of a sinking ship.
Oh,I'm so damn afraid!Of failing!Of succeeding!Of finding a meaning to this life I decided to treat with utmost indifference.
Stories live and stories die within the confines of my brain all the time,while I do nothing about it.Such a sad fate...