...But I couldn't. All that is left now is just the feeling that I'm not good enough. I don't have the drive to do things, even when I have the time. School is making me busy, yes, but sometimes it's just an excuse for me. When I say that I have a lot of school works to do, am I telling the truth, or just hiding behind a lie?
I'm not too sure about it anymore.
I don't know. They say that I have my own style in writing, that I'm good at what I do. That I have a great imagination. I just say that the stories come to me. I don't make them up, they're there already, waiting to be read. But is that the truth, I don't know. I just have these fingers, they keep writing whatever just comes to my mind.
I don't know if I'm gifted. I'm not sure if I'm worthy enough to call gifted. Not sure if I have talent.
I don't even have the drive, the inspiration to do things.
But writing is still the only thing that I have. The only thing I want to keep doing until my fingers won't move and the blood won't flow in my veins.
...I wish I could've done it, still. But I couldn't.
I might be a liar sometimes, but right now that's the truth and it makes me sad.
But I'll live.
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