Choked on roots

I’ve just written another short story for a baby birch tree. This time is different. There’s less lust and dopey moves. Still, it’s a half confessional story. I’ll pass the original copy to it and come up with a better cover page with my useless computer in my office. (All I had was PowerPoint, paint, Writer and other software similar to that)

Unfortunately, I am feeling slightly pessimistic about this. In fact, I always do.

There are many ways in which one expresses their feelings and emotions and you all know it by now that my way of expressing is through writing and cheesy literary techniques. Writing them down is miles better than stuttering in front of that particular person.

Ideas come to me better when I write them down instead of verbal communication. Either way, it will bite me back in my butt.

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