Not the appropriate time or place. But I’m a writer, however amateur. I write. That seems to be the best thing I do. It may make me seem like a loner, maybe even hostile. I used to care about that. Now? I just don’t care. This happens to be who I am.
Voices. Activity. Noise. Vigour. That’s all around me; I stand in the midst of it all – alone, passive. Recluse?? Nope, just shy, I suppose...
I wanted to change, once upon a time. I envied the people who could just go up to a stranger, strike up conversation and make a friend. I used to want to be that way. Not anymore...because I know now that that will never be me...
See that girl over there...standing alone, quiet and distant? Naught special? Hmm...that, my dear people, is yours truly. I’m not complaining. I don’t need your sympathy. I’m only saying because you ought to know... that I am here... watching you...
Then, I meet my beloved pen and paper. I write. Time flies; I don’t even know how much. I look up and suddenly I find the world gone ahead while time had stopped for me...
I thought I’d be different this time. A new place. A new year. I’m still the same. I accept myself for who I am.
So would I say it’s a bad beginning? Nope. Because this is just the beginning and the beginning hasn’t ended yet...
Wish me luck...
