Life is sort. Don't spend it for rubbish things. But use it for your personal growth. To live of Live best way is an art that remains in all but some people open it and some not.
Isn't it the most frustrating thing to have the persistent feeling that you need to write, but for the life of you, your always rampaging mind can't seem to come up with something suitable for your emotions today? I'm sure all writing enthusiast out there can relate to the situation I feel right now. Like an itch you can't seem to get under control unless you start typing, I can say for sure that writer's block is at its worst when you feel the urge to have words flowing onto the page by any means necessary. I wasn't always like this. In fact, I still find those horrendously boring topics they force us to write on in school to be a big encouragement to give up the writing gig for good. But, recently, it's become like my drug I can't escape from. Whenever I write about what my heart desires that day, I'm forever floating in a relentless high, entirely at peace with myself and the words that stream across the page in an unstoppable torrential rush. It's the one thing that makes me feel free of everything: judgment, restrictions, deadlines, worries, pain, limitations. Time. I can travel wherever I please without fail. From the deepest, darkest parts of the ocean to the highest, brightest, stars in the galaxy and beyond. All are mine for the taking. Pencil, pen, keyboard; the medium doesn't matter so long as I can let my mind soar into my wildest imaginations. I could revisit the past without worries of disrupting the future. I could be the first to confirm that black holes indeed lead somewhere reachable. I could be the version of myself I hope and forever wish to be and start shaping my Now to chase after that Tomorrow. The possibilities indeed are endless, with our only limit being how far our mind's eye is willing to see. Who knows; perhaps one day we will discover what some perceive to be impossible to comprehend. That all the “fiction” we've created is really other universes “non-fiction.” Who's to say that every time we create a book, we've indeed created a new universe? Or further yet, what if the ideas we have that lead us to the pieces we create are downloads about other worlds that exist somewhere in the infinite vastness that is space. For all I know, I could be the main character of someone's book right now. Now that is something the reflect one for sure. Well, how strange is this? I could've sworn I had no idea what to write about a few moments ago. The itch, my persistent need, has finally been quelled. But that only happens when I've written about the right thing. How interesting. How'd did my perfect something come from absolutely nothing? Where did the words arrive from? Our mind is one strange entity. It makes me wonder how much we truly understand about ourselves.
