It’s not new. It’s an old rhythm. I go round and round the endless circle. Doubting, wondering, lost in self-created labyrinths of what-if’s and never-will-be’s. Only to emerge again, full of determination.

Regardless of the eternal question (am I good enough?), irrespective of its answer, I will always tell stories.

Even if they are never viewed by another. They are not Schrodinger’s cat. That do not cease to exist because they are not seen.

I will write them. I will create.

I don’t have a choice. There’s no other option. I don’t know how not to. I don’t know any other way to “be”.