My friends write really well.
And I don't know if that's insecurity or fawn or biased opinion shining through. But I think they write phenomenally well. It's weird to think about how young a writer I am, compared to them. Weird to think that - really - I was quite late.
I can't remember what I used to do before writing.
How can I be late if...
Timing is strange. I never quite seem to understand it.
If I had a time machine I'd never know what to do with it.
It always seems as though there are multiple strands in my life that burst into their own line of actions, each a different colour or shade, my entire life a ball of multi-coloured yarn.
And then conversely it feels like it's all just one long string that twisted and faded into different colours, like an Autumn leaf. How am I supposed to know where things started, when things began? And does it mean..
Does it mean nothing really ever ends?
not...not really?
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