I'm disappointed to say I'm not any-bit of the writer I once thought I'd become, by now. Having grown-up, not willingly, but as with the passage of time, I realise I am no longer special. There was a time when I might've been told I'm gifted, or that if only I apply myself, just put more effort, my potential could prove contrary to whatever "self-fulfilled prophecy" my homeroom teacher told me not to become. Yet, her words rung true, and then hung in the air around me, and made space in my head so they could wait, and when come the moment, re-emerge unto my worsened mind. Her voice rings loud again, a reminder of all that I have wasted. If I am to fall-short at nurturing what little talent I have left, it might disappear completely, leaving me barren.