drenched of possibilities, possibilities of what might have been if I wouldn't act rational, if impulsiveness didn't take over, if I would find happiness in taking time and the possibility what would have happened if I hadn't viewed other people's interests as my own.
it's been half a year, half a year of taking a break from the only passion i've left and even though i've still remained to publish books, it feels like those words inside my stories weren't mine and never will be. at first i thought it would be my self-confidence that pushed my works into the shadow of my thoughts and contentment, but i kept pushing myself, pushing myself in the ecstasy of positive comments and feedback, pushing myself till now, the point where I feel so unfamiliar to myself that I don't even believe that my works are really mine.
it's odd and cruel at the same time to lose yourself in your own words and petrifying not to know how to find your own voice again.
i've always longed for feedback, for positive words and confirmation, so much that the ecstasy had more value to me than actually keeping myself, keeping those words that spread dopamine and serotonin through my body, that made me believe in the magic of my own stories.
i've kept pushing myself till the edge where i don't know how long it's going to take me to find my words back and it makes me fall apart more than i've could imagine.
i am apologizing for everyone that kept motivating me, for everyone who supported me and my books.
i am apologizing for disappointing you, but i really need to stop before i will completly lose my voice.
i utterly and completely in your debt and will forever wish you the love you gave me.
maybe till one day xx lizzie
