Reverie in process

‘I want to be a writer.’

‘Can you earn by writing?’

Self-confidence and inner solace seem to be absolutely needless at the moment. Of course, the root of burning determination is always there, waiting passionately to be able to grow towards the sun and enjoy the beauty of blossom.

Just a simple sentence, has put the weight of the whole universe on my bare shoulder, the gravity is no longer there. I surmise, the suggestion/decision is a lost cause.

I hate the way they always relate my passion with my future job, with money. Of course, when the subject of topic is brought up, the only thing you can instantly think of is money because it matters the most in this fast-pacing society which the amount of money in your bank account is possibly the very foundation of your happiness.

They say it’s definitely an unwonted case that I devote my whole heart on words and sentences whilst others are adventurously discovering the magic of science, the amazement of architecture, the complication of law….

‘It is not the best decision. Can writing be a stable job that promises your future?’

‘You got to think clearly about that.’

‘You can only get a low salary when you get a job.’

‘Is it easy to find job? Will you be paid with big amount of salary?’

The hidden skepticism and doubt are too obvious and deep-set to be felt. Bloods bleed through my heart that unable to stanch. I don’t have to take a sharp knife to know how does pain feel like, the very definition of pain is paving its way to every sense of my body.

I, sometimes, grope my ways in the encroaching darkness just to find a congenial company, someone who can totally understand my dream and try to think at my standpoint.

I want to be a writer regardless of the spate of disagreement.

I once told myself: ‘Streams of chatter are the background music in your life. Deep down, the rhythm of the beating of your heart is the most great melody in your orchestra.’

I’m not endowed with the intrinsic talent of writing, I have to admit. But the passion has held out its hands to reach to me but what I can only do is retreat from it.

Mental fortitude isn’t sufficient to hold back the tears.

I won’t stop writing, although I choose the other path that has never been flitted through my mind that it is what I am going to be in the unpredictable future.

I’ll, make this dream perpetuate, and indisposed to let the fire of the passion burns out.

I’ll write, and write and write, write like a mad one.

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