Already 40 and still struggling to realize a dream, writing. Sentences without subjects. Just fragments. It's tragic.
There are so many things to write about. There are so many issues. Experiences. Love encountered, lost and regained. Politics that go in circle. Endless thoughts and musings. Stories.
Show, don't tell. Still nothing comes out. Nothing original. Only a retelling of what has been already told.
Writing is a process. We learned that from our mentors. Writing is a commitment. We've read about it. Analyses.
Write about what has been written, what has been said, what has been done or not done.
And nobody's reading.
Then the mosquitoes start humming. Not unlike the helicopter we see in the movies or hear in the mountains.
And reality bites while the mosquitoes sting.
One is brought back to reality. One starts rummaging into old notes that survive the rats and the cockroaches and the termites.
One goes back in time. Reminiscing past adventures. Slowly turning the yellowed notes and the decaying, no, brittle clippings of old newspapers where one's byline is printed in 14-point Times New Roman bold type.
Then the years come back. The places. The people. What happened to them. Where are they now?