Sitting by the key board, not helping myself by thinking of it. Typing letter after letter and hoping of acceptance. Dreams are big, but window of chances grows smaller by every line I make. Will those that I don’t see, approve me, awe at my work? Will they understand the emotions, laid in this text? How dare I call myself one of them, when all I do is sit here and type, not socializing with them, not being active and helpful?
Their faces, blank and submerged in darkness, look through the illuminated screen at my effort and struggle. Reading this and not feeling what it’s like to be stuck in a fox hole I named Life. I don’t know them, their smiles, smell of their clothes, warmth of their soul. What are they thinking? Will they LIKE this post out of sheer pettiness towards me or do they understand? How dare I ask them to accept me as soldier in their ranks, as a trooper to fight against illiteracy, as a brother in quill? How dare I, when all I have to offer are the vast worlds of imagination, broken hart and a dull pencil?
How dare I?