I often find myself staring up at the sky, or pondering the sight of the moon. It’s vastness consumes my thoughts and twists them into doubtful conclusions. I am simply nothing more than a speck on this chanced up rock. My ability to breath, move and have a presence is all from a coincidence that I must thank something called the Big Bang for. I have no meaning, no purpose, or place. This all drifts through my mind like a complicated honey mixture: thick and slow. Why should I continue on this winding road that will never have a peaceful end, for the beginning was never peaceful. It was just there. If I could just nestle myself in a state of oblivion, then these issues would all be solved. But I can tell, oblivion will never find me, not when I’m still conscious of this world I am a part of. My sole option is to stop staring at the sky, and to stop pondering these hindering thoughts.
I’m an aspiring author along with millions of others on this planet. I’ve only been writing for just over two-and-a-half years, and my dream was always to someday publish a book. However, over the past few months, I’ve come to the conclusion that my dream isn’t necessarily to have a book published, but it’s for people to want to read my writing. I don’t want them to read it because it’s their job, such as a teacher, and they’re getting paid. I don’t want them to read it because they’re my family or friends and feel as if they have to. Someday I dream that I’ll have readers who read what I write simply because they want to. I am aware that my writing isn’t there yet, but someday I hope it will be. That’s my dream for the future.