The twenties have been rough, boy.
I miss not having any other responsibilities except playing with dolls and staring at the stars.
Childlike dignity and optimism can be destroyed.
I was expecting a sunny, beautiful adventure, but instead I have some dismal stories of misfortune.
Questions like, “What do I want to do with my life?”, can cause a twenty-seven year old a nervous breakdown.
I have submerged myself into the idea of what society wants me to be.
A manager here, a manager there.
Sales, I do not want to ring.
Words, I want to write.
All I know is that I want to do what I am doing right now.
Why sell another man’s dream, and be the one to bottom-feed?
We forget to invest in our own well-being.
I have no problem bring a working bee, but when will I taste the honey?