Autumn has just started here. It’s cool outside.
Still struggling to begin the first 20 pages of the novel I am writing; I’ve had encountered several days of writer’s block. Some obstacles were insurmountable that to perfect one sentence drove me on the verge of insanity.
As a writer I am so vulnerable.
I shall never be able to comprehend the way of the world. I may profess to have understood its subtleties, but will never be able to make an all-encompassing generalization.
I’m only 22. But God!
When will I grow up?
When will i stop fearing, worrying?
A friend told me that a wife of a communist leader in Vietnam during the 60s chose to commit suicide than to be used as a hostage to force her husband to give up his principles.
One is freer to stand by the truth he believes in if he’s alone.
What separates him from his truth is a void where his very own life is not adequate to fill in.
But will be unbearably painful if his loved one’s blood is sacrificed.
Such is a writer’s life.
My eyes are blurry. The glare coming from my laptop is just too much to bare inside my dim room. I might need a pair of glasses.
I am taken aback by the sound of my phone’s vibration. A message.
Why do I have to be too young? Why can’t I just be old enough to see my world maturely?
The glare is killing me.
I’ll never stop writing; I’ll die if I do.