I know I would hate to suddenly realise at eighty years old that I haven’t lived my own life. That I haven’t always searched for ways to improve myself and to become a kinder person. That you have spent your whole life living by someone else’s perception of how you should live. Blowing an entire months wages on that Michael Kors handbag, because you need to buy things that you can’t afford, to impress people that you fundamentally don’t care about. I would hate to be that person.
When I am old and I can’t dance around the house or sing at the top of my lungs anymore. I want my memories to comfort me like books always have. A good read isn’t all sunshine, rainbows and Prada. A good read is tears, heartbreak, laughter, love and loss, but it grips you and it makes you feel alive. I want my mind to tell me my story one last time before my book is finally closed because I know, it will be my greatest read.