I once also had a little black book, I still have it today. This is not the kind for clandestine interactions or fantasies. No this one had more. This little book contained the poems I wrote when I was still at school. Fragments of a broken heart confined in the form of poetry. Answers searched for, by a wandering soul. Messages encrypt for the future, my present existence. This book once was lost or left behind, but returned to me at a time greatest at need. For now I pronounced the title of writer to my name, although I’ve known from a fresher phase that path, as it’s destined to be my way. I tried to hide my scripts from the so disapproving biosphere, but with no admiration comes no fulfilment. As I read my little black book, a recollection of sorrow and lost arise. Though these memories I can now only esteem, as they are the centre to my soul. These are the pure and everlasting literatures that gave me the passage to my dreams. Let me dream at night; let me dream through the day. Let my dreams lead me along the way. Let me live the life of a dreamer, a wonderer, but most of all a writer.

(I dedicate this, to the one who returned my little black book.)



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