I’ve always thought about writing. And contemplated about being a writer. But am I even a writer if I don’t bother publishing anything? So here I am, having had enough overthinking and finally taking some action on a dream just to get it done or over with. I am writing, because I am a writer. I usually write grocery lists, and things to do, and stuff to pay and a bit of ranting on my personal journal, but thankfully, writing is a wide arena and I got in undetected, so here I am, trying to earn the title to keep my spot in this arena.
Honestly, there are so many things that I’m not so sure about, I’m not sure about what I’m doing, so please be gentle with me. I’m not here to make any impact in your life, I’m just here to keep you company since you ended up here anyway, might as well give you something to read about.
I’ve got a lot of things that I’ve always wanted to try, and right now I’m in a funeral chapel, accompanying my grandmother who visited her friend, and I realize that… if I were to end up in a casket in the future, I don’t want my thoughts to be buried with me. I want to somehow be able to still keep my words and thoughts afloat, especially for people who may find some sort of value or humor in it, no matter how miniscule. So yes, just visiting dead people gives you a push to make the most out of life.
