When you’re alone and feeling down about it, think of this idea: “You never know who writes about you”.
In washroom doors, in park benches, in notebook covers, in the palm of their hands, in book pages, in the air. Somewhere, sometime.
Just this very basic, indefinite thought gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling. Maybe because I’ve always written about people and how they’ve affected me. Maybe because the idea is comforting no matter what. Someone, somewhere, has written about you.
In washroom doors, in park benches, in notebook covers, in book pages, in the palm of their hands, in the air.
I believe this to be true.