(written entirely in English except for a few titles here and there)
It is strange. I love to write. The smell of drying ink, pages upon pages of words right under your fingertips. No one day is the same, each word, each page taking me somewhere new. Once a child, now a teen, words continue to shape me.
(Compiled from quotes below)
Today I will be a child, and enjoy my innocence until it dies, buried in the soil beneath my feet. Here I dream because sometimes I do not wish to see. My best friend still peeks from behind the clouds now and again, but I don't see it for I am too busy staring at the ground. Perhaps, like the pig above me, I will one day too live with the clouds.
To this day I am infected with ice, cold burrowing its way through me. I saw so many colors then, but now all I see is black. Still, I have come to realize no cold, no darkness lasts forever. Seasons change, chapters end. Just like these books have stories, people do too. For I live in a broken world, and I am broken too. Here words may contain me, but they also set me free.
And through my writing, I will be young forever.