I pretend to be me when I write and I don’t like what I read so I stop even before I start.
I want to see what happens in my head that’s why, and I want to talk about it with myself.
I wish I could write again like me. Those were the days of papers and pens. No delete buttons. No coward backspaces. No wordprocessor. Just muscle full of strikeouts and angry strokes. My memory is getting rusty about dates, sequences, places, but my feelings remember. I believe that’s my reason to write.