Showering

A Story by Acacia

I was thinking to myself about how nice it felt to be showering, to be washing off the grime and nasty bugs crawling all over me. I stood back and laughed. Because my dream has always been to be a w

I was thinking to myself about how nice it felt to be showering, to be washing off the grime and nasty bugs crawling all over me.

I stood back and laughed. My dream has always been to be a writer. I curled over and started crying, because who had this damn idea anyway? I do not want to be a writer, who starves on the sidewalk and wonders why his or her dream isn't quite the fantasy he or she imagined when they were young.

I thought, "How would I tell people that my dream is to write?" (Everyone has a dream, don't they?)

How could I say, "Yeah, Uncle Scott, Aunt Bettina, my dream is to be a writer."

I couldn't. So I won't. I won't be a self-serving, self-sustaining writer. But my dream that me, this, that, it, is to be put to paper. Paper, where the ink runs black or blue, and the lines are hasty.

I just know that there is something special that happens when a person is able to escape.