To the art that is dying, for my tales that were never born, by someone who never had enough ears to tell how I felt. I'm a poet.
This is my first episode! It's been a while since I tried to upload anything. I'll be trying to journal my insights, some questions that troubled me and how close I am to receiving their answers. Starting with *drum roll* Burn Out. Very common, very frustrating, listen to yet another relatable talk about what it is like to be burnt out and the not-so-futile attempts to overcome it.
Year comes and year goes, we wait for the moment between December last and January first as if our whole notion of change depend on those mere few moments. A change is coming.
Nights don't seem enough, words never fall short but the sun doesn't fail to rise either. Then left behind are the tales waiting, remains in the night to be picked by another starry dreamer who found someone to listen to their stories.
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