I was rummaging through my old files and folders from ages ago, and uncovered an old folder of stories.
Reading some of them scared me a little to be honest. Most of them were from when I was 13, and now, as a supposedly mature and independent 19 year-old who's working her way to a university degree (and upon graduation, a job), I feel not only overwhelmed by the passion of my 13 year-old self but also of my lost ambition; of my unwavering conviction of who I was and what I was going to do with my life. I didn't let what other people think deter what I thought. There was so much bravado in my writing. So much melodrama and over emphasise and cliches, yet it's sad to say that I had so much more rhythm in my writing compared to now.