Today I am sitting here, thinking about dreams, emotions, and life. In reality everyone spends time during sleepless nights thinking of such things. I know I do, especially today. Because I want to write, write with purpose. Then I pause to think, about the fact that every person that writes anything wants the same thing. I see it on social media, old books, and scribbles from four year olds. It is the desire to be heard silently, without spoken words. Yet some are heard and some aren’t. Who gets heard? The person that tries more than once, that’s who.
So I sit here today at 1 AM writing without an outline but with emotions, emotions that are only understood by been alive. Then you realize: That’s it! You are here alive, and you have no other choice but to live. Otherwise, you can just sit and wait for life to expire. You wait for death, or you can move forward and embrace it when it comes because you have lived.
Do I care if people understood what I wrote tonight? No, because I did and that’s who I wrote for. I have the right to write with purpose, simply because I am here, dreaming, alive, and with emotions. I am the master of my borrowed life, the author of my scribbles. Another person that silently wants to be heard.