I am thinking of what movie to catch. I am pondering over what kind of food I’d like to try. I am planning on what to wear for brunch. I am worrying about what work I have to complete.
I am scared. I am scared that I am starting to be like anyone else, my ideas run dry, my heart turns numb, my brain filled with consumerism. I am scared. I am scared that I am slowly forgetting to pause to think about my life, my parents, others’ lives and the world. What happened to my dream of writing? With the postponing of my landscape water painting class, my passion starts to wane like the moon, bit by bit and day by day.
I think, I’d still love to write, especially something about my father or mother. Maybe, if I set a target like giving them a short novel by their 55th birthday, I’d have more motivation to write something substantial and proper. The words of love (and hate) I ‘ll call it. How apt.
