He waited
With his eyes glued to the road
And ears to the wind
He waited
Till his vision blurred
And the sound dulled
Yet hope within the heart soared
So much that his breath could not hold
Yet he waited
All his life
With his eyes glued to the road
To be honest, I’m not sure. I didn’t have a plan for this. A few ideas popped into my head yesterday, but I let them slip away without writing them down. So now, I’m here, wondering... What should I write about? I’ve always admired how writers seem to find the words. They don’t just tell stories; they make sense of life. Whether it’s fiction, essays, or poems, their words flow effortlessly, drawing you into their world. It’s like magic—captivating and transformative. Somehow, they’ve mastered the craft of turning simple words into gems that stay with you long after you’ve read them. And then, there’s me. I just write. I let my thoughts spill out, raw and unfiltered, without much structure or thought. No carefully woven narrative, no grand flow—just whatever comes to mind. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever get to the level of those writers who make it all seem so easy. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. But right now, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m writing. I showed ...
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