I wish I had complete power over the words, as to manipulate them to make beautiful verses and people would call me Neruda. But with every word I wrote down, I got disillusioned from my dream and an unbearable pain outgrew the passion for living. I can't write no more, my craft went corrupted with the cowardice thoughts.
Now my only hope is to get a second chance; another life or afterlife to start-over, being rich in languages and words, being the architect of my own dreams. I shall then be known as the sultan of literature.
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