Dear Self,
You aren’t too kind to yourself,
You always feel like a hologram of skin and bones, a wasted soul.
Your mind runs ninety-nine miles per hour, yet you’re seated in place.
You’re locked in place, fighting off that weather of weapons, all on your own.
You smoke those cancer sticks, and BAM!
All your stress seems to flow away, like a rushing river across the land.
You stay up all night, you insomniac, you night owl, you can’t even bring yourself to get up in the mornings to slave away under those fat cats on top of society.
I hope one day, you can find the courage to go back to being a motor mouth.
I hope one day, you’ll go back to being that talented show stopper.
I hope that one day.
You’ll stop being such a dust kicker and get back on your feet.
Just know that every chapter comes to an end, but at least we’ve anticipated this one against all the other endings we have yet to face
