Sometimes I wonder if I am not swallowing too many little Utopian sweet candies.
One after another.
Feeding myself with the belief that not far from now, I will be a writer.
And a successful writer at that.
But then the terrible nagging feeling that I am just a kid who doesn't want to wake up from a nice dream rises and my heart gets cold.
What if I am just a big kid who doesn't want to grow up?
But if this thought was like a toy which I couldn't let go?
This dream being something to play with but not to be considered seriously?
Is the kid being reasonable?
Is the child not getting too spoilt and is loosing sight of reality?
Some days, when I am on my desk writing and I rise my head off the screen and I see time passing by, inexorable grains of sand falling from the top of the hourglass, I am worried that life is passing me by and that I am running after a long forgotten dream and by the time I actually get the beginning of some minor if not far away sucess, it might be too late for me to realize that I actually had a life and I, let it slip away from me.