So I’ve been writing. I’ve been writing in English, but at this point I don’t think it really matters.
I think what really matters is the fact that I’m still able to write, that I really can do it, even when I think that I can’t.
So it’s kinda wonderful, to tell a story, and to feel really happy about the fact that it’s not just a story in my head. Not anymore, finally.
It exists. It’s there, somewhere.
Also, I’m really okay with the the fact that my writing is kinda messy, not really accurate. You know ?
It’s like watching a cloud and picturing what it reminds you of, it’s never going to be real but it’s going to make you think.
That’s what it feels like for me. It’s good. It’s enough. It’s fine.