My people

My toast was for the mediocre ones. The ones that didn’t have the gift, they had to work tremendously hard to get the words they have this day.

They didn’t have an insanely mad love that brought questions to the true author of his books. We were lucky enough to haven’t gone to war and come back with haunted looks and hungry for death. Yet, unlucky enough to write like a love affair was a strategic decision. We didn’t get lost in the ways of a person who had the same last name as the nemesis of Sherlock Holmes. We wrote on notebooks and paper, in our skin, in your name and our life. 

We never thought the best of us and didn’t have a first memory of writing. 

But we did have the thirst. 

T.A.