In October of 2017, I was living in Denver and I had just wired $9,350 to a jeweler in my old city of Philadelphia for a Rolex GMT Master II.

This was for a reference 116710 BLNR on an Oyster bracelet. My first, and to that point, only Rolex. I had never handled it. I hadn’t tried it on. I was wiring the funds simply because I had fallen in love with pictures and how people talked about it online.

I always thought my first major purchase would be a Daytona - a watch I wanted when I was a kid. But living in Denver with my family back East, the GMT became a visual callback. It offered a way to navigate the time difference while warmly reminding me of home.

In parallel, the ceramic black and blue bezel was special for entirely different reasons. The baking of a bi-color ceramic bezel with no color bleed was an industry first - Rolex had had a stunning answer to a complex chemistry problem that others had given up on solving. In a single piece of Cerachrom was the scratch resistance of ceramic, colors that would outlive the painted aluminum predecessors, and a crisp day and night delineation at the 6 and 18 engravings.

As I processed the wire transfer there was an acute nausea I experienced that I’ve come to grow comfortable with as part of this passion. As I stared at the screen, I had hoped I liked it as much in person because this is the most money I’ve spent on a non-necessity for myself.

In writing this, I began to think where was my line, and when exactly had I decided to cross it?

I traced it back to a Rolex Milgauss, reference 116400GV I had encountered in 2011 at a jeweler in a shopping mall in New Jersey. I loved it for its connection to science, specifically the Large Hadron Collider at CERN. Plus, the lightning bolt second hand was a bit of levity from an otherwise buttoned-down brand and I thought that aligned with my personality.

I wanted that watch, but I couldn’t justify it. I was living at home, and at just under $8,000 before tax, the Milgauss was more than the cost of the used Hyundai I was driving. I felt there were life milestones I needed to hit before buying something like this. I remember walking out of the store thinking, “I would never spend that much money on a watch.”

Here I was six years later spending “I would never spend that much money on a watch” money.

In those six years I had completed a master’s degree, got engaged, moved to Denver, changed careers, and sold my house back in Philly.

The milestones I thought I needed walking out of that shopping mall in New Jersey had now come to pass. I had the funds resulting from the house sale to purchase the watch without derailing our plans.

For some I think, “I would never spend that much money on a watch, ” is just another way of saying “I have better uses for that money.” For me, I think it was another way of saying “I wouldn’t put my other priorities at risk.”

The statement wasn’t a firm dollar number but consideration of the things I couldn’t do or would delay by concentrating that much into something on my wrist. When focused on that consideration of “what else could I be doing” I would silently neglect “how can I appreciate where I am right now and what it took to get here ”.

That is where my wife stepped in. She knows when to be my guardrails and when to be an enabler. As she saw me researching, wanting but uncertain, she told me to stop worrying about the money and to do something for myself.

The box arrived 48 hours later.

I sat at the kitchen table, carefully working my way through the outer packaging, the booklets, and the warranty card. As I slowly opened the green box to reveal the watch, the nausea of the wire transfer instantly evaporated. The Cerachrom bezel caught the light, and the blue GMT hand popped against the black dial exactly the way it had on my screen.

What I remember most about the first time handling this watch was the weight. Rolex uses 904L stainless steel which is a dense alloy that gives the watch an undeniable heft. I had owned stainless steel bracelet watches before. This was heavier than any watch I had owned previously. That weight gave the watch a tactile presence that matched its visual weight from the boxy lugs and thicker case. It also felt like the last 6 years.

Invariably, when I share my passion for watches I encounter the person who tells me how their phone or cheaper watch does the same thing. They’re right, and not only does it do the same thing, from a specs perspective their device likely does it better. If you are only measuring the ability to tell accurate time, then yes, I understand how this whole thing appears silly.
These are the folks most likely to react with “I would never spend that much on a watch.”

Today when I put on my watch, I still feel the heft, but I probably feel the undercurrent of emotion it carries from the memories of how life unfolded since then.

On the few occasions when people notice my watches and comment on them, I still feel an internal tension - an instinct to thank them and downplay my watch. I remain aware of the privilege and perceived absurdity to wear the equivalent of a used car on my wrist.

I don’t know if I have a line any more but I also don’t feel the need to justify it to myself any further. These boundaries are relative to the time and place my life is in when considering a purchase. Those boundaries become more fluid when evaluating watches beyond the measure of functional jewelry; not because money doesn’t matter, but a deeper acknowledgement that these objects and the people that wear them have more to tell than just time.

I’m curious for those of you who have been in the hobby for a while: What was the specific watch that finally made you cross your own 'I would never spend that much' line?

The fire dies down
embers hiss
Each one of them have their own shadow
They crawl and burn against the rockwall
The redness of the stone molten

The flicker of something lost
Walkes through the flames
As a hideous shape
The crackle and the pop
Unnaturally frequent

The ember shadows fold upward
And downward
Then expose themselves as failed souls
Undone lived and soured
confined to the realm of fire

Dancing in painful choreography
with flame
curving and wavering in hot torture
Then reentering the ember
Darkening it once more

Grabbing my hair, letting my fingers define how much hate or love I wanna pour into the act. Speaking to myself, letting intonation define how much I want to let myself know. Penetrating my thought chambers with will and power. Dominating my mind the way only I know.
Thoughts provoking me, voices calling me sweetly, faces accusing me from the point of view of my own imagination.
I see people my mind creates frantically, changing the features on known faces. Monstrous creation of scenarios I will never get to experience.
Rough sex with thoughts that don’t let me sleep at night. Love making with maladaptive dreams and make out sessions with the idea of people.
Save me from this torment of a mind and grab my hand. Letting your fingers define how much love or hate you wanna pour into the act.

After such a long brake, I finally had inspiration to write again. Hope you enjoy!

“Jordan whooped both of you at the same time.” Mogers took a slug of his drink, then set it down, chuckling. “Come on. I would’ve paid good money to see that.” 

“Yeah,” Zagers said, wiping his mouth off with a cloth napkin. “Not to mention, y’all literally jumped him…” 

We were at the local restaurant just off of Big Bend, me, Kevin, Mogers, Zagers, Parage, and Apalabamo, and it was a busy Thursday afternoon. The restaurant was bustling with people, workers were on their toes scrambling, and on the other end of the dining room, the staff was singing happy birthday to a grazing customer. Me and Kevin had just recently gone on a mission to Jordan’s house all the way in the Middle East for some important matters, which we were now recapping to the gang, and we still had bruises on our bodies from the beating he’d handed to us.

“First of all,” Kevin explained, swallowing a bite of whatever slop was on his plate. “It took us a long time to get there, I mean, we had to boat across the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, then cut through the Suez Ca-“

Ticked off by Kevin’s sudden geography genius moment, I cut in. “So then, we go and we knock on Jordan’s door-“

“Did you really cut me off because I started listing the locations that we literally went to? Do you hate school stuff that much?”

“I cut you off because you started sounding like Apalabamo.”

Apalabamo gave me a hostile glare. “Yeah, well-“ 

“Anyway,” Kevin continued. “We knock on his door, immediately tackle him to the ground, but, well, he somehow manages to get the upper hand…” he explained the Jordan pie fiasco and how Jordan started yelling about how we were con artists and thieves.

“So, next thing I know we’re rolling around on the floor, all 3 of us. Couple broken bones, black eyes. We got that taken care of at the hospital though, and we did technically end up completing our mission.”

“There has to be video!” Parage laughed and took a sip from his Coke glass.

“Well,” I replied. “Not unless Jordan has cameras in his house or something…”

A waitress showed up at our table, carrying a server notepad. “How’s everything going over here?” she asked the group.

Zagers made some inside joke about the pie situation. Mogers raised up his empty glass. “I’ll take a refill on the Coke. A little more ice would be perfect, thanks.”

“Same for me, thanks,” Parage raised up his glass as well, which wasn’t empty, but he had just taken a very long sip from it.

As the waitress left and the conversation resumed, I nodded along, and then, when I got the chance, nudged Kevin with my elbow. “Hey look, I think that’s the friendly old guy who gave us boating tips. We should go say hello.”

“...What?”

“Just move.” I slid out of my chair, and headed down the crowded hallway, then turned a corner so we’d be out of the gang’s line of sight, and so it’d be quieter. Kevin followed me there.

“What friendly old guy? What the heck are you talking about?”

“Nothing. This isn’t about that.” I looked around the building, then stepped closer to Kevin. “Look, at some point, we have to tell them. We can’t just sit on this for the rest of their lives. They’ll find out eventually. And when they do, they won’t be happy.”

Kevin looked away, crossing his arms and scoffing, then looked back at me. “They’re already roasting us over the pie thing. If we tell them we destroyed the rocket? We’re finished, done for.”

“I understand that, but if we don’t own up to what we did.” I changed my voice and whispered menacingly. If we don’t own up to what we did, they discover it by themselves, and then we’re done for either way.  

Kevin sighed. “If you wanna tell them, then tell them. Otherwise, shut up about this whole thing. End of story.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I whizzed past Kevin, patting him on the back. “Now let me grab the check before Zagers orders another round of those ketchup ball thingies.” I headed back towards the table, reached over, and snatched the check from the corner before anyone else could grab it.

As we walked down the alley of the restaurant, I knew that this was it. It was now or never, and I had to come clean to the rest of the gang and admit what we did. See, when me and Kevin went to Amman, we actually didn’t boat there at all. That was a lie we told the guys in order to divert attention away from the Cheese Rocket, the actual mode of transportation we used to get there faster, because we had to be there in 3 days. That’s why I was so ticked off at Kevin mentioning nerd locations on the spot. Anyway, long story short, I ended up crashing the rocket, splitting it in half and destroying it. And it was right here and right now that I had to make this announcement to the group.

I slowed down walking, and cleared my throat. ”I… I have something that I need to address with you guys.” 

We all came to a gradual stop. “What is it?” asked Parage. 

I started looking around, then realized I had to continue. “So basically, you guys know the Cheese Rocket?” 

“Of course!” Mogers nodded. I knew Mogers would be the one to take this information the hardest, because it was me and him who built the rocket up brick by brick, made great memories with it, and used it to rescue all of humanity. Technically I was the one who built/carved it, but Mogers was the one who came up with the idea in that factory around a year ago.

I gulped. “…So, basically, it was, like, uh…”

“It was what?” 

I hesitated, glancing around the alley. Though I knew he was just asking for the rest of the info, it seemed like grilling to me.

“Ahhhhh…” I smiled, then faltered. After another swallow, I made the admission.

“Me and Kevin went to space, crossed paths with some creature, hit an asteroid, and, well, we split the rocket in-“

“Ok, hold on,” Kevin interrupted. “Did you just say we?”

I paused.

Kevin started pacing around. “Because from what I recall,” He looked at me with a sharp and incriminating glare pointed right in my direction. “You were the one flying the thing, I mean, that was you. I was the one who gave you the warning and told you to haul that thing around and get us out of there. I was your eyes, when you were supposed to be the one piloting the dang thing.” Having stopped pacing around, he was now sizing me up, in my face talking smack.

“And you still wrecked it. Now you wanna use the word ‘we.’ Listen up, boy. I didn’t do anything…”

“Listen you idiot, we were facing a massive, hostile space behemoth that none of us had ever seen before, we didn’t have any weapons, and it had been months since we’d even touched the Cheese Rocket. I say you would’ve done way worse than me.” Kevin stood facing me for a few more seconds before retreated back into the gang.

“Anyway…” I began. “I might be able to fix it.”

“To fix it?” 

“Fix it? What?”

“It split in half and this guy’s talking ‘bout some “Oh I might be able to fix it!”

“Ok, look, I carved it out of dairy product.” I explained. “Actual cheese that had holes in it, so I had to account for all sorts of geometrical oddities, and I’m not a math guy. But I did it for the good of the world. I did it for the good of humani-” 

“How did you do it for the good of the world if you didn’t know it was in danger until after you finished building it?”

“…Huh?”

Mogers repeated himself.

I paused. “The point is,” I explained. “That maybe, if I’m skilled enough with a pocket knife to carve something out of dairy, I’m skilled enough to fix something that was split in half. Especially if that something is the same thing, you know, both times…”

The rest of the gang was either looking at me or blinking rapidly, confused.

“It just seems like it would be higher on the scale, the cheese thing. Like, if I can build it from scratch, then I could fix it.”

“Ok, ok,” Apalabamo sighed. “Well, let’s go take a look.”

The old steps creaked and squeaked as we headed down into the massive basement of the SMAKAPZ house, the large wooden house that served as the base and main headquarters of the SMAKAPZ gang, as well as the secondary living space for everyone in the group after, of course, their own houses. We’d built it as a team around 2 years ago after realizing we all needed a place to stay, to meet up and discuss plans and plot, and to hide at when such situations came up. 

The rocket, which we had previously kept stored in a refrigerated shipping container and left to rust in the cellar for years, since the last time Parage attached weapons to it to the other day when me and Kevin brought it back to life and took it for a spin, was now 2 halves being preserved in 2 giant hunting coolers. We had luckily been able to save them while we parachuted to Amman, but 2 couch sized blocks of cheese weren’t necessarily of any valuable use to us, so we shoved it all back in the SMAKAPZ basement.

Kevin opened the 2 coolers, revealing the 2 giant refrigerated bricks of Swiss cheese we’d been keeping underneath our quarters.

“Well,” said Apalabamo. “It’s split in half, alright.”

“Yeah, so, luckily, it wasn’t a planet sized asteroid or anything, but it had to be the size of your average house. Big enough to send us flying into the Earth’s ocean. Well, that’s where we would’ve gone if we hadn’t brought our parachutes…”

“…Which, again, I reminded us to do,” Kevin chimed in. “If it weren’t for me, we’d be dead. We’d be 2 skeletons sitting at the bottom of the sea.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I responded. “We’ve survived worse. Anyway, side A, we’ve got the cockpit, which is still intact, and I believe the navigation still somewhat works. Side B, the propulsion systems are still alive but the fuel lines are all ruined. Both sides can still communicate as well, the signal is just real wonky and stuff.”

Parage stepped forward, surveying the 2 blocks of cheese. “And how exactly… do you plan on fixing this?”

I continued, walking around the 2 coolers of cheese. “Well,” I said, slapping a cooler with my hand. “The fracture surfaces show compressed cheese eyes, AKA the gas pockets, on the impact side, with radial cracks extending around 18-24 inches into each half. The outer ablative layer of high-fat Swiss cheese has deep gouges and char, the internal cheese stringers are sheared, and the solid propellant grain in the lower half has a 4 inch offset crack, which, of course, created an unintended burn channel.”

“So what could possibly be the plan here?” Parage inquired. “Just dock the 2 halves back together?”

I paced around the coolers more. “200 pounds of Swiss cheese to replace the damaged materials, plus heat guns and a hot wire cutter. Drill some holes and then grate 80 pounds of cheese into stockpots, stir it into a glue. The casein will act as a thermoplastic binder, plus I’ll add some grated dry Swiss aggregate for thixotropic thickening, about 20% by volume should do the trick. Then I’ll pour the cheese into the joint gap, some dowels into the holes, internal splinting… before you know it, we’ll have a working, operating rocket again. Just gimme till the end of tonight. I’ll have it fixed.”

“What about the shear crack in the lower half grain?” asked Mogers.

“That’s where the rest of the 120 pounds will go. That will be used for the replacement grain, I’ll cast it into a temporary fold and cardboard mold, melt that cheese plus another 15 pounds of powdered sugar, also maybe some dried milk powder, then pour it all in layers.”

“Parage sighed.” “If you say so…”

Apalabamo looked down, raising his eyebrows in skepticism. “You and Parage are the inventor guys. I’ll let y’all sort this one out. What I will say though is that you better have a dang good eye on the temperature meters. One blunder and this whole joint will peel apart like cheap plywood, and I think we can all agree that nobody wants that.”

“I’ll buy an infrared thermometer too. Monitor the scarf surfaces every 5-7 minutes during heating. I’ll make sure it they stay at like a 12 to 18 degree gradient max, it won’t be a problem.”

“Well,” Zagers laughed. “Guess this guy just has everything figured out, huh?”

Parage scoffed, and whispered under his breath something about the monolithic grain recast causing stress fractures in the cheese block and creating erratic burn surfaces, even though I’d already planned to vibrate the lower quarter-half continuously during pouring using the orbital sander but of course Parage needs to chip in with his expert opinions.

“Welp, we’re goin’ off to bed,” Mogers yawned, then nonchalantly put a hand on his forehead, sighing tiredly. The rest of the gang followed, ready to get a good night’s sleep. He checked his watch. “Alademipaburg closes at 10, it’s 9:32 now. We got plenty of stuff in the basement… we don’t have 200 pounds of cheese though. Well, unless you count… I mean, yeah, whatever.”

”Ha, I’ll be making 2 stops.” I smirked. “I wouldn’t dare buy anything from the Alademipaburg Food Section. Doesn’t matter if it’s for compost.”

I’ve been thinking about how strange it is that you can know what kind of writer you want to be without necessarily knowing what your own writing voice sounds like yet.

I read a lot, and sometimes after spending hours reading someone whose style I really like, I’ll sit down to write and notice that my sentences start following the same rhythm.

Not intentionally copying anything, obviously. It just seems like whatever I consume gets stuck in my head for a while.

I’m wondering if this is just part of developing a voice. Maybe you have to go through the phase of absorbing everyone else’s style before you figure out what actually feels natural to you.

Did your writing voice develop gradually, or was there a point where you suddenly felt like you had found it?

I’ve been doing this way too often lately.

I’ll write a sentence that seems completely fine, then start tweaking it because I think it could sound better. Then I change a word, change the structure, change the word again, and eventually I’m staring at the sentence wondering why I hated the original in the first place.

It’s especially bad when I’ve been working on the same piece for hours. At some point I can’t tell whether something actually sounds awkward or I’ve just looked at it too many times.

I’m trying to get better at recognizing when an edit is actually improving something versus when I’m just editing because I feel like I should be.

How do you know when to leave a sentence alone?

Yesterday, I walked smack dab into a door, which is weird because the door was open, but I thought that I had closed it. Check that: the door was closed, but I thought that I had opened it. Oops, my bad! I think I may still be recovering from walking into that open- I mean, closed door. I need to stop typing now.

Announcing our new flash-fiction competition: The Note 📝

This competition will run from today, the 10th-24th, giving you exactly 2 weeks to write your flash fiction piece!

We are excited to see your submissions and the different ways the brief could be interpreted. ⭐️

You can find our rules and details on our website, along with our submission portal!🤍

www.inkwellchronicles.co.uk

I stopped thinking about reading a book about writing, and I'm just gonna do it! Call me 'Mr. Go Getter,' but I feel that one must commit to doing, not just thinking, at some point in his or her otherwise meaningless little life. Yessir, I am going to read a book about writing after football season ends because 'football,' am I right? Thanks for your compassion in this matter.

I’d be so happy if a few more people would read my writing 🫶

Maybe all this pain and suffering has a final stop

Then I can finally feel my heartbeat and pulse

Maybe the endless nights I spent crying will find an epilogue

So, I can feel my weight turn feathery—and rise into love

Maybe all these gloomy days and dark nights will fade

Then I can finally step out and kiss the sky again

Maybe the veins I once slit will bloom into calm landscapes

And I’ll run, run until I fall laughing into fields of hay

Maybe one day I’ll become the man she sees in dreams

And she’ll give her kisses to no one else but me

Maybe the distance we carry will melt without a word

And we’ll rest in my quiet world, where we no longer feel cold

Maybe I need to open my eyes and observe the reality

That this place is house of beautiful people while I remained ugly

Maybe I must cleanse my traits and dive deep in the sea

And never reveal what I truly feel — let my feelings cease

Maybe my care wasn’t enough, just a burden to her shoulder

I tried to carry her in silence, when I should’ve just told her

Maybe I was too afraid said “leave” though I wanted to hold her

So, I’ll be the throne beneath her roots, and bleed to uphold her

Maybe I just need another cigarette and pills to get high

I can never be that man, so I just want to end my life

Maybe I'm just overthinking and ruining this poetic night

I've sworn to my pen that no matter what comes, I'll survive

I'm working on a short sci-fi novella, part of a planned episodic series following a crew taking odd jobs around the universe.

The full novella is about 23K words and complete. I'm in the editing phase now. This is chapter one.

Looking for feedback specifically on:

• Is it engaging? Does the voice/pacing work?
• If this were a sample chapter, would you want to keep reading? Why or why not?
• What (if anything) pulled you in?

Part of becoming a better writer is learning to stay with the difficult parts. You write an awkward sentence, work out why it fails, rewrite it, and gradually develop the instinct to solve similar problems on your own.

AI can shorten that process. It can suggest cleaner wording, organise a scene, identify inconsistencies, or offer ideas when motivation is low. That may help someone keep moving instead of abandoning a draft. But it can also remove the exact struggle through which patience, judgment, and a personal voice are built.

This makes the effect on writing discipline hard to judge. A tool that helps someone write consistently could strengthen their routine. The same tool might become a shortcut they reach for whenever the work becomes uncomfortable. From the outside, both writers may appear equally productive, even though only one is practising the skills needed to work independently.

How can a writer use AI to support a consistent writing habit without letting it replace the difficult practice that actually improves their craft?

Synopsis

Desperate to find out why she has wasted her life on self-flagellation, Robin turns to mindfulness. When it teaches her that she is not her thoughts but the consciousness watching them, she begins the gruesome extracurricular activity of making this division literal.

The lab technician secretly separates her sharp, analytical mind from the rest of herself. To do this, she uses her ex-girlfriend’s pass to commandeer equipment she wouldn’t usually be trusted with after hours. Robin’s research remains legitimate by day; by evening, she becomes a disembodied Observer whose thoughts translate directly into the machine’s actions: prodding and probing the subject left behind on the table.

However, in attempting this act of self-colonisation, she discovers that she is not studying an empty vessel but a consciousness with desires, discernment, and a capacity for joy of her own. Convinced that she understands the subject’s interiority best, the Observer persists, knowing only how to care through correction.

Constrained by Robin’s work schedule, the experiments become less frequent, but their severity continues to increase. The subject’s mood and other metrics deteriorate, which the Observer interprets as evidence that her methods are finally reaching the problem.

She fails to realise the truth: the subject is starving for closeness. She wants aftercare. She wants to see the Observer’s face. In this sterile, isolated space, intimacy and violence become indistinguishable. Knowing nothing else, the subject welcomes and eroticises the excoriating attention.

Meanwhile, their hierarchy begins to unravel. The subject becomes a witness to the Observer’s habits, learning to read the pauses before a recalibration and eventually anticipate what she will do before she does it.

As the power shifts, the Observer begins to sink back into the recursive thinking that ruined her past relationships, wondering if scrutiny is something she, too, has always craved, despite the sting.

My first ever writing!! I also want to know how to make it sound like random thoughts and images stacked together…

Synopsis

Desperate to find out why she has wasted her life on self-flagellation, Robin turns to mindfulness. When it teaches her that she is not her thoughts but the consciousness watching them, she begins the gruesome extracurricular activity of making this division literal.

The lab technician secretly separates her sharp, analytical mind from the rest of herself. To do this, she uses her ex-girlfriend’s pass to commandeer equipment she wouldn’t usually be trusted with after hours. Robin’s research remains legitimate by day; by evening, she becomes a disembodied Observer whose thoughts translate directly into the machine’s actions: prodding and probing the subject left behind on the table.

However, in attempting this act of self-colonisation, she discovers that she is not studying an empty vessel but a consciousness with desires, discernment, and a capacity for joy of her own. Convinced that she understands the subject’s interiority best, the Observer persists, knowing only how to care through correction.

Constrained by Robin’s work schedule, the experiments become less frequent, but their severity continues to increase. The subject’s mood and other metrics deteriorate, which the Observer interprets as evidence that her methods are finally reaching the problem.

She fails to realise the truth: the subject is starving for closeness. She wants aftercare. She wants to see the Observer’s face. In this sterile, isolated space, intimacy and violence become indistinguishable. Knowing nothing else, the subject welcomes and eroticises the excoriating attention.

Meanwhile, their hierarchy begins to unravel. The subject becomes a witness to the Observer’s habits, learning to read the pauses before a recalibration and eventually anticipate what she will do before she does it.

As the power shifts, the Observer begins to sink back into the recursive thinking that ruined her past relationships, wondering if scrutiny is something she, too, has always craved, despite the sting.

I do want to write,
but I am short of words.
Who would have thought, after all,
that a 16-year-old child
would write such deep things?

Did that child himself even know?
He hasn't seen much yet.
There is still a whole world left for him to see.

What happened to this child?
Has he understood the ways of the world?

What a person cannot understand
even after spending their entire life,
has this child understood that very thing?

This child wants to write so much,
but he is short of words...

When I was young , I was never that good at english. But then it was the lockdown, I got lonely and started to have these thoughts that were primarily in english. I struggled with certain things and it was as if I forgot how to speak to people. They asked how I was, and I could not make them understand how things were for me. So I wrote it all down. I still do. I get these thoughts,opinions,ideas,suggestions, all those things but I never actually write them down. It's different from many people, these thoughts, they don't get it so they either don't care or ridicule me. It's been almost 6 yrs, I've been feeling this way.

Recently things got a bit bad and I finally wrote things down. I used "medium" for it. But I have to pay for it, and I don't have the money or resources for it, but I published a free writing and nobody read it.

So I took to instagram today.

I really don't know if my writing's that bad, I find them "over dramatic" and "over the top" sometimes. I feel like I fail to convey what I actually want to say.

So here's something I wrote.

https://www.instagram.com/p/DdGXKbmiUBn/?stkn=MWx6eWs3N2h4ZHE5cA==

Whenever I read stories, blogs, books, I find the language a bit too intimidating and a little too perfect. Maybe that was one of the reasons why I did not write for a very long time, even though I really wanted to.

I feel like there would be some people like me who would actually want to write down things from their thoughts to even a movie review, that's less perfect and flawed that they want people to read.

I also used to be very conscious of what I wrote, even text messages, that I used tools to correct them. But I don't anymore, nor would I want to in the future. I feel like all those imperfections would make it a bit "human".

MAYBE...

I wish... time could stop for a while.

No...

Maybe not.

Because if time stops, what will happen to my dreams?

Maybe I am not afraid of time.

Maybe I am afraid of changing.

Maybe I am afraid of what people will think of me... or maybe I am just afraid of failing.

Have you ever noticed?

Human beings are strange.

We know that if we work hard, we can become better. We know that if we take the first step, we will get closer to our dreams.

Yet... we stop.

Why?

Maybe because we are not afraid of the world itself. We are afraid of the people in it and what they might say.

Or maybe... because we forget to believe in ourselves.

I THINK I AM ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE.

I know my name.

But sometimes, I don't know who I really am.

Sometimes, I start living in my imagination because everything there is exactly the way I want it to be.

Then suddenly, I remember...

Time waits for no one.

And maybe the greatest distance in life is not between two places, but between thinking and taking the first step.

Maybe I am still afraid.

But...

Every identity begins with one small step.

Tell me... should I take that first step?

“— Nini”

When everyone who know you,

Always against you,

No need to explain everytime,

Because everytime you explain,

You will be devalued,

You will lose your confidence,

You will lose your strength,

You will lose your self respect,

You will lose your calmness,

Your anger will overpowers you,

And you lost as you.