I AM THE AUTHOR?

Who holds a pan? I do!

I'm the author of my life and I choose this world to be my altar. Forever straggling to stay on it with my both feet, extracting confidence from within and be bold at the same time. Being creative in my fun, not caring if I look ridiculous, must learn to love a fool in me. Let my soul be free even when I feel tinni tiny, so tiny, anyone one can fit me in a pocket and take me where I don't choose to go. But I must keep fighting for my integrity and stay true through all the endings, hoping some of them will be disguised in new beginnings.

Constantly waiting in fear I missed something. A sign, a joke, a dream forgotten. I write in fear of forgetting, so one day I'll convince myself I held the pan, I had control over what was meant to be. When I only write of happy days, praying the bad and ugly won't matter in so many years and will be safe under the carpet that I nailed to the floor.

It is a fountain pan I am holding. Curving my 'g's' and 'y's' beautifully. Like love, ink isn't endless. Having to choose what to make last till the end of time, making me nervous. Questioning how important is the now? Very? Wait for the next now. Maybe I am just greedy? Reminding myself that expectations and assumptions are the thief of joy. Making sure to count my blessings.

Remember, remember, remember. Isn't that living in the past? Or just a search of what was it, and it was good. Does it matter at all? Yes, it does, in my books, in my diary.

Sitting on the end of the world, to be quite exact, the second southest point, deep into the ocean, that I turned my back to, ignoring the wave swellings, they don't mean anything to me, yet. And still wondering who is holding the pan?

All the things that I believe never fail to amaze me and that is why I think I'm ill.