She comforts herself with the tea she made with her own hands. Her anxiety shakes her legs whenever she stands up for a speech. She would stutter and forget all she had to say. She has never been able to write, even though she has an immense number of things to say. It was partially because she was never at ease with her writing. She read some books, and felt herself improving, but the inferiority complex inside her created bubble sounds in the stomach. Her private writings ensured her that she is clearly getting better. She was insanely genius but immature, and realized her innocence by looking at the scribbles spanning more than five years: memories of her first love, her dream house, and an outline of the kind of future she wanted.
When she’d reach a peak in some area and start feeling better, the presence of a new and higher peak started haunting her. She felt herself nothing compared to that. In the meantime, she poured literature, philosophy, and science over herself. Now she feels okay. Yet a higher peak, a prose that flows like river, is her next destination. She thinks she is mature now.
Along the way, she realized that at least she should leave traces of her progress, that she will always be incomplete; so she throws away this idea that she will make her writing perfect. Now, her motto is: We humans are never complete, we come and go in this world incomplete. She knows that living an unaesthetic life is a sin, and that her life will end in a blink of an eye. Meanwhile, her tea is finished.
October 5, 2023