When I first thought of writing this journal, I was dripping with enthusiasm so much that every cell of my body felt alive. I felt alive. I was excited and desperate. Writing being a soul-soothing passion—I couldn’t wait to start the journal already, but there was so much lacking and unfortunately, I had felt it.
“I couldn’t just be writing ‘anything’ ordinary. It’s going to be my finest of the work, a real treasure that must mesmerise the reader. It must be something special, something important and revolutionarily life-changing.” I had told myself. And this was the very shitty self-talk that had changed everything.
This craving to create a masterpiece snatched even the ordinary precious pieces out of my palms. I regret some of my absurdities and I’ll tell you, it still annoys the
