A day like this...

-- detailing the moment their crush smiled back.

Someone else will be writing about some misfortune, in a time zone further ahead than the one I am experiencing right now.

And someone else will be writing about the injustice of having no choice but to live within this system that seems only to screw us over. Though the person right next door, might be trying to freeze in time (& words) the job promotion they just landed.

There is someone out there who has already frayed their notebook trying to polish their journaling session like a poet would. Another less poetic mind leaves it orphaned on the page following their most recent grocery list. You’d be right to bet they didn’t cross everything off of it.

Meanwhile a stranger’s soul, in another part of the world, is trying to empty their heart of all the sorrows they can no longer hold in liters of tears.

We are all writers in our own way.

It’s true what they say: we could all have a book inside us.

I have many inside me, and scripts too. Perhaps more scripts than books. But I haven’t been skilled enough to extract them from my soul. Not just yet, at least attempting to lower them onto the page.

I want to stop saying one day, but until then--

-- that doesn’t make me any less of a writer.

𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃🖊

— yours truly, v.