Dear ghost,
I am nurturing my modesty. I have been playing in the mud of my hubris. I have counted every swaying emotions. Written all the nauseating fear. Cried all the laughs blooming in me. Confronted every puzzle pieces. After Hunting all the catharsis, the blurry hesitation still rages inside. There must be a way to weed and only nourish the spring.
What should I feed my soul?
Yours.