Notes from a writer 

Streets are full of souls all thinking at once, the energy that brings us together is caught up between right and wrong, between emptiness and fulfilment We are wondering souls all walking on a path that leads to where our answers will take us 
Are we derived from helplessness? 

Are we certainly lost? 
I met a certain soul sitting by the park scribbling on a piece of paper 

The wind pushed through 

her notes flew close to the bin, I saw her looking at them, she rushed to get them before they get devoured by grass and dirt. 

I picked them up and handed her the scribbles 
She looked, 

took her papers and smiled 
She left 
We are not wonderers of hope 

We are wonderers of our existence 

We wonder around our scribbles because it means that we are writing a story 

We are telling a tale

A tale of solitude

A tale of belonging 

Ambitions run free 

Our notes are our identity 

Our writing is pictures of our life 

We represent life with the notion of telling a tale 

That is the case of a writer 

On the grass 

Or in an apartment 

We are free in our minds 

To think and believe in our characters 

To smile and punish our desires 

By a tale 

That will live longer than our wondering selves 

 

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