I’m convinced that, in another world, in another life,
I was a writer.

Observing life,
weaving stories,
hunting words,
and adjusting reality.

I’d sit by the ocean,
a glass of wine or tea in hand,
and write—
about love,
about life,
about sadness,
about characters defying odds
to create their own worlds
within mine.

I’d rewrite the endings I couldn’t bear:
bring them together,
let her succeed,
make her feel loved,
and turn him into the one.

In that life,
I’d shape the world as it should be—
one story at a time.