This is a Journal entry by Chrysanthemum

Of dreams and another day

Post 1

Chrysanthemum

I dream of being a writer. With a unique style. New ideas. Good readership. And I dream of seeing my name in print. None of it has happened yet, except in my dreams. My friends tell me to at least try. Without even trying, you'll never know. They are right of course. But I am too lazy or maybe I just don't have it in me, though I don't like to admit it, even to myself.

I sit at my computer and feel, "Shucks! the screen strains my eyes. I should write long hand and then type it out." So I turn my chair to my desk. I sit there with my chin resting on my palm, a pen loosely held between by index and middle finger. That is, what I suppose a thoughtful pose. Supposedly shows that I am thinking of things great and small. Ideas that will soon be translated into words. Coherent words. Words that make sense. Words that strung together will form a neat sentence.

The phone rings. I snap out of my reverie. *Sigh* I close that neat, ruled excercise book. "Another day, I tell myself. "When the ideas crystallize." A small voice somewhere deep inside me says, "Huh!" Of course, I ignore it. There is always another day, right?


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Of dreams and another day

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