Looking through old journals. I’ve found 2 short stories that were never finished. I remember how I would spend my whole day writing those stories, thinking about what could happen in the story. I was so fixated on them that I forgot about reality, it was like I was living in some other world where happily ever after did exist. After reading the stories I made up, I’ve decided that this is what I wanted to do, be a writer. Now-a-days, imagination is dying and technology is taking over children’s lives. That’s just sad. I can’t even see myself with a world without imagination, or books. Fck this generation. I want to go back to the time where technology didn’t exist. Or at least when it started to get more advance.