Maybe one day the words I write will be read by many. Maybe they won’t.

My dream is to make a living through writing – fiction, poetry, essays, and small reflections like this.

It feels exciting, silly, scary, and funny to imagine what life might look like in five, ten, or twenty years.

Exciting, because this could still exist then. I wonder what I’ll think if I read it again at 32, 37, or 47.

Silly, because this moment doesn’t feel like the future I imagined I’d be living by now. Five years ago, at 22, I thought time moved slower – that five years wouldn’t slip away so fast. It’s not that I didn’t have short term goals; maybe I just didn’t understand the value of pausing to think about life and time every now and then.

Scary, because there’s always that quiet (or sometimes loud) fear. Mostly, it’s the fear of wasting this one chance at living. I want to make the most of it – to do something that matters – and I’m terrified I won’t have the time. Something deep in me insists I’m meant for more, though I still don’t know what that is.

Funny, in the strange way, not the ha-ha way. Time can feel warped – like we’ve lost whole years (hello, 2020–2021) or like we’re counting every second until something ends or begins. Maybe time bends around emotion – expanding with joy, shrinking with grief – shaped by anticipation for what’s next. We measure it so we know when to show up for work or see the dentist, but the rest? That’s all perception.

If I keep showing up here, something will come of it – to me, for me. I can’t wait to find out what.

Ever-scribbling,
E