Some people remind me that there has to be bad, for there to be good in this world. But I like to think that there are more people who remind me that if you look at yellow skies often enough, they become a part of you.
Who remind me that even the largest of mason jars couldn’t trap all of the sunshine in this world. And they remind me that the toughest of days can be gone in a good night’s sleep, and that none of this will matter when I’m 42.
The things that will matter is the books I read, the movies I watch, and the poetry I write. I am the person that 7-year-old me wished to be friends with. I am the person that 10-year-old me wished she would someday be. I am the person 12-year-old me imagined as the protagonists of her favourite books. And I am the person 15-year-old me wrote about, because she knew how much words meant.