Some are born with stories built already in them. Never stop the absolute scream of terror loosing world of before ripped from reality once more. When but a few words, one short tune, can shift their understanding with that still raw pain of wonder open eyes in aftershock wonder if experience was theirs or even human. Met with eyes rolled, sighs, repeating once more your delusion.

Some are born with full fledged talent, skill, your shouting wondering won’t compare. You fall silent. But the act of breathing is of under water crystal ice held razors of that boredom ignorance, having to refuse what’s true. You start to hum, you write, play violin in tune with silent, music play pretend at night. Sleep deprivation, like coming up for air from suffocation just for one glance seeing. But after years of jealousy, resentment, loving, finally asking, WHY NOT ME?

Some are born with stories built already in them, inside dreams just waiting for their crew. And if some learn to tell with magic then why on earth not you. To pretend the goal is making, in itself, but half truth. Why not try for excellence, wow, shared, success, taboo. Of all is solid base of hard work, luck and grunt, knowing, rich friends, mostly true. But to say the striving is not worth, assuming failure, at start, having that naivety never make it through, fear silencing shame. Never trying out of disappointment, filter, construct doubt and value, fuck it, shout and fight for you. None of it will matter, let yourself dream, hope, and TELL THE STORIES. Falling back on expectation not yours shameless from before. If they could learn, why couldn’t you, be brilliant, inspiration and a force. If other beauty made from hardships, limitations, “made it”, love it deeply. Why not me.

Some are born with just no choice. Bouts of inspiration, time stopping, on its own. A letter of compassion, grief and gratitude to those, vulnerabilities required. Contrasting, make and more and more and faster, faker, pretty constant, flying by, but desperately, searching never pleased or satisfied, barely even high. Real stories are hard currency, and needed, life saving, first aid, start, of deconstruction. Why not me, u ask, no reason true, when you know stories, inspiration, time stopping, just for you, no reason true when just writing is all you ever needed to do.