especiallyemma☆°｡⋆

I yearn to create a masterpiece before I leave. 
I want to leave something they would play at my funeral, 
read during my eulogy, publish posthumously, 
study in classes, or dissect for unintentional meanings.

I only need to find the time, sit down, and write my masterpiece. 
But the list of things to do just grows longer and longer.
 
I have to clean my room, clean the house, read books to pass the time. 
Do my laundry, sort my laundry, fold my laundry, listen to a song. 
Order books I won’t read for years, play a video game or two. 
Attend my cousin’s wedding, practice guitar, get a boyfriend, and join a band. 
Watch movies to pass the time, paint my nails, get a job. 
Go to school, get married, settle down, have a kid. 
Get groceries, get fired, retire, pay off debt.
Grow old, see babies, give candy, send postcards from home. 
Attend hospitals, attend funerals, fall down the stairs.
Get sick, fight cancer, divorce, take medicine. 
Donate to an orphanage, get lonely, depressed.
Get slow, tired, insane, and collapse.

If only I could just sit down and do it. 
Only then I’d be fulfilled.