My mind is a storm, but
If you ask me how I'm doing...
I would probably say...
"I'm okay"
I dine with parts of me I can't recognize yet they know so much of the person I am now.
I miss childhood innocence,
the peace my mind used to cuddle and take for granted...
I miss how little control I had over my story...
I guess I was comfortable with someone else holding the pen, as though I was more confident in them to write what's best for me than my own hand.
My mind is a storm, I guess because I now write my own story?
I never used to bother my mind with...
When should a new chapter in my life start?
Where should I put a full stop... Should pause now?
Does the sentence have too much emotions?
...am I writing my story right?
...which characters should I give more screen time?...is this a sad story?
What do other writers think? Do I have an easer?
Do I know when I should start writing again?
But of late, my thoughts conjure answers from mirrors around my life
as I ponder on which version of the reflection I should keep.
I tell my myself... maybe if I was a writer, maybe then I'd know what I'm doing wrong,
maybe I'd know what a good story looks like.
My mind is a storm,
for I have spilled the ink of my thoughts over the canvas of my life, and I see not my next step.
I thought I'd distract myself with an abstract masterpiece from the noise of the colours of life, but my hand still shakes with anxiety as it fumbles to strike a fitting brush stroke.
To me, I'm a mess... perhaps other eyes see art.
To me I'm a mess...but I can't say I'm done with my story.
Jun 24, 2024
Jun 24, 2024 at 7:12 AM UTC
My mind is a storm, but
If you ask me how I'm doing...
I would probably say...
"I'm okay"
I dine with parts of me I can't recognize yet they know so much of the person I am now.
I miss childhood innocence,
the peace my mind used to cuddle and take for granted...
I miss how little control I had over my story...
I guess I was comfortable with someone else holding the pen, as though I was more confident in them to write what's best for me than my own hand.
My mind is a storm, I guess because I now write my own story?
I never used to bother my mind with...
When should a new chapter in my life start?
Where should I put a full stop... Should pause now?
Does the sentence have too much emotions?
...am I writing my story right?
...which characters should I give more screen time?...is this a sad story?
What do other writers think? Do I have an easer?
Do I know when I should start writing again?
But of late, my thoughts conjure answers from mirrors around my life
as I ponder on which version of the reflection I should keep.
I tell my myself... maybe if I was a writer, maybe then I'd know what I'm doing wrong,
maybe I'd know what a good story looks like.
My mind is a storm,
for I have spilled the ink of my thoughts over the canvas of my life, and I see not my next step.
I thought I'd distract myself with an abstract masterpiece from the noise of the colours of life, but my hand still shakes with anxiety as it fumbles to strike a fitting brush stroke.
To me, I'm a mess... perhaps other eyes see art.
To me I'm a mess...but I can't say I'm done with my story.
Generic thoughts in your 20s!
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