Dearly Beloved 🤍
I am not a writer, I just like writing.
Dearly Beloved 🤍
I am not a writer, I just like writing.
I am not a writer, I just like writing.
I am not a writer, I just like writing.
Once again, my bed jerked me out because I refused to wake up to the mumerous alarms, except this time it was for an urgent even in the afternoon. I pit my legs in my comfy slides while I grabbed my tablet. My slides ushered me to the bathroom where my toothbrush brushed my mouth for me. I hoped in the shower and next my closet picked your an outfit for me so that I didjnt have to wait to pick an outfit.. ) the end)
Feeling tired and hungry due to hours of walking around the deserted beach. I finally opened my eyes and was welcomed by the shining glean of the sunlight and unfortunately the same squeaking chicken that crept around me the whole day. While I struggled with loneliness, this little squeaking chicken whom I was yet to name gave me a little burst of happiness, which I needed to push through and find my way of the beach. I walked to the shore of the crystal blue water hoping to submerge myself in the pristine feeling of the water. When suddenly footprints which seemed rather clear glared at me. This did not make sense as I was the only person on the beach. I was uncertain as to whether to feel excitement or nervousness. My little squeaky chicken starts following the footsteps and I crept after hoping to see where it would lead to. After 3 minutes of trailing after the clear footprints on the sand which made no sense. But then again, has anything made sense for me at all?