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.
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…
View original post 10 more words