The more I write and practice, the more I realize that there are wonderful stories inside me. Like a terrible narcissist, I find myself in love with bits of things I write. I read them over and over, not out of ego, as one might assume, but out of shock, that this really beautiful thing came out of me. I have only ever felt this way when I look at Z. It just feels really..really good inside, to know, I am good at something.
I am tentatively falling on love with my ability to write. It’s like meeting someone with the potential to mean everything to you. You are terrified, but much too interested to stop, because this could be it, this could truly be the ONE. The one that could break you, make you, reshape you.
This is the biggest step I have ever made towards a concentrated focus on one area of interest. I love learning and this really feels like the one I want to commit with. (That sounds dorky, but you know what I mean)
This feels like happiness.