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 I have spent my whole life living by someone else’s perception of how I should live. Blowing an entire months wages on that Michael Kors handbag, because I need to buy things that I can’t afford, to impress people that I fundamentally don’t care about.
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.
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