But is it still?
I’m getting older, perhaps a tad wiser, but occasionally I get the feeling that perhaps all I’ve already experienced is it.
Is this all?
I mean, I’ve never experienced great sorrow.
But I’ve fallen in and out of love.
I’ve felt deep despair and terrible anger.
I’ve known joy.
I’ve known individuals, if you know what I mean.
Never have I gone on an adventure, but very few of us would do so. What we truly want in our hearts, we fear.
I’ve read that writers are the greatest hypocrites of all; they create these realities, these adventures, that they are afraid of embarking on in their own reality.
I would like to call myself a writer one day, but I also do not want to be a coward, though that is what I am.