I am an adult, but a damaged one.
Work. Write. Read. Keep putting words on the page, because that's the only way you'll get better.
Thoughts race, as if, in a mind devoid of memory, each idea has too much space to grow and move, to collide with others in a shower of sparks before spinning off into its own distance.
I wish I hadn't. I wish I'd fought for you. I was weak and stupid.
There are memories I a better off without. Things better lost forever.
I cannot imagine how I will cope when I discover that my life is behind me, has already happened, and I have nothing to show for it. No treasure house of collection, no wealth of experience, no accumulated wisdom to pass on. What are we, if not an accumulation of our memories?