Yet I’m still afraid

There is a thing that I keep stalking without any results, don’t worry, is not a person. It’s the experience of certain feeling.

I haven’t wrote a word since I got too little to use from my own imagination that uses the tag “boring” for all the things I do. I hate the “boredom” fact on my life, the “uncertain” about my future. Today I’m healthy, tomorrow on a hospital bed thinking where I messed up.

And over all, an empty shell looking for stuff to stuff inside. Anything that lasts more than a lifetime would be greatly received.

I write in the middle of the night, because I’m done with today’s to-do, my time to re-think about the things that have me worried.

I remember an exam where it said “write your own recipe for happiness”, I hope I have written truth or rather sarcasm. Because I really need that one when I write.

Having a recent scar, led me to relate that to many things on my life. My love matters, my boredom stuff, my happiness standing by its own.

I even joke with my internal void, the lacking piece, the excuse for the dark circles around my eyes.

And I’m still afraid this will last if I let it last.