Time and point of view are subjective. One moment, a blur of enjoyment and complete focus, compared to another moment so mindless and suffocating it makes you want to poke your eyes out.

Working one day feels like an eternity, while being on vacation never feels long enough. Writing two sentences and its already dinner time, versus writing thousands of words and its already dinner time. Sitting in a chair passing the time by breathing and staring at my cell phone compared to getting shit done.

I used to believe my stories weren’t worth mentioning. No good or just boring, I’d categorize. I kept them away percolating in my mind. They had been bubbling over but also taking up useful space; space where I could hold something else. But I’ve woken up and had a realization that there are stories worth mentioning only because I’ve given them life. 


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