In this city of millionaires, lately I've been feeling like I'm not making a damn dime. This city's heart is so damn cold at night. Plus, my love life is a total hot mess. Plus, my attempts at a poetic prose just don't have the same ring to them when I write them out on a cocktail napkin.
Welcome to my world at twenty seven, where I can't sort anything out and the only thing I can't stop doing is making mistakes and continuing writing.
Writing like I'm some damn novelist-wannabe. Writing, writing, writing until my brain swells up and bleeds with words. Words that only make me more confused, yearn for the time lost, long for something that is only a creation of my mind.
You know what the most frustrating thing is?
No, it's not not knowing what you want. It's knowing exactly what you want and having no clue how to get it.