I always wanted to be something I possibly couldn't be under my circumstances. A writer, a ballerina, a psychiatrist, a martial artist, someone's only love-- Thought I can never be those without help of people around me. But they never wanted me to be what I wanted to be.
So why would they help me. And were they even in a position of helping me?
I wrote small things sometimes, hid them from people-- friends. Because nobody cared. Not even I sometimes.
And then I decided that I would try; something. I can't be a ballerina, or the other things. But I have a pen and paper and I can paint it with my words; even if they are not worth reading. They still are mine.
And in these some months that I decided for myself to not be sorry, shy or anxious for sharing my words. There has been enough silence. I will say what I want to say, even if no one reads it; no one likes it.
And now I find some people telling me that I am good. I hope one day I can believe them.