I am a writer and I write about my life.

The first hundred pages are made out of photos and drawings. I didn’t know the power of words yet. I didn’t what to put.

The next few years I took a black permanent maker and ran it through the pages. There was nothing to write about. 

No dreams.

No life.

Nothing, just time passing by and change showing itself.

Time- the lines my marker marked.

Change- the black ink I can never erase.


But now I have something to say. Something to write about.

I take up my pen and I write. My words go far into to the future.

I have to make up for lost time. The words I write is my life. The life I am about to live.

The story becomes so vague, so general, and so impossible. But I am not wasting my life…

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