I've been writing so much lately, but I can't seem to stop.
When I got sick, it seemed like everything froze and being stuck in bed with nothing to distract me made me want to write faster.
It's been good.
It's been difficult as well.
Two months since my father passed. I hate saying 'passed.' Two months since he died. Kicked the bucket.
Some days I forget entirely but still have that lingering uncertainty as though something just isn't right.
And some days, everything makes me cry.
I want to believe I was my father's biggest supporter. I want to believe that I still cared for him, cooked for him, believed in him even though I received treatment I didn't deserve.
I'm not angry or bitter.
I just feel like in those movies. It's true. You do ask yourself, "What if things had been different?" Or "What if I had done more?"
And my result is always the same. He would still be who he was. A stubborn man who didn't want anyone's help even though his actions screamed for it.
I want to write here more often, but I'm afraid it won't be about writing. Or maybe it will be. I don't know.
How can life be so happy and so... dismantling at the same time?
I am humble, life. And I will continue to be grateful for everything I'm given, and I will continue to give. I will be optimistic. I will enjoy my life even when some days don't seem worth getting out of bed for.
That's the lesson, right? Live my life.
I am humble, life.