I remember what it used to be like when I could fill up page after empty page with transforming words. It could transform your environment, your being, your emotions. It was a gift, nurtured by the fact that everyone else I knew could do it as well.
They keep going. They keep transforming. They are more artistic than I.
Three years into trodding down the road less travelled, I've come to see just how much of this gift has been wasted. There is a saying. To him who is given much, much will be expected. Logically speaking, this could also mean that for him who much has been expected but has not given anything, much will be taken away.
Much has been taken away. It is still not too late. Is this gift worth pursuing? It does me no use in the field of science, it gives me no pleasure if none will read or appreciate it. Gone are the days of secret celebrations, silent pride is a dangerous foe.
Whatever shall I do. I am so attached, and yet it fills me with regret.
They keep going. They keep transforming. They are more artistic than I.
Three years into trodding down the road less travelled, I've come to see just how much of this gift has been wasted. There is a saying. To him who is given much, much will be expected. Logically speaking, this could also mean that for him who much has been expected but has not given anything, much will be taken away.
Much has been taken away. It is still not too late. Is this gift worth pursuing? It does me no use in the field of science, it gives me no pleasure if none will read or appreciate it. Gone are the days of secret celebrations, silent pride is a dangerous foe.
Whatever shall I do. I am so attached, and yet it fills me with regret.
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