There are things I think and feel that I try to neatly wrap in the words that I know, the words that I have been given. The grant of writership gives me permission to try, but sometimes, it's not enough. My amateur self feels too inadequate, ill-equipped, and small to fully put into words what it is that I want to say. Not that what I have to say is profound; it is the same wave of emotions that everyone feels, those waves of simple sadness, secret joy, and bouts of frustration that escalate into anger.

So I drown in the melodrama of myself, and I look back on my writing and either laugh or cringe.

Destiny. It is word that ought to carry immeasurable weight and contain unfathomable depth. Yet, beyond its surface, it's a word whose seriousness has become diluted. Too many Hollywood rom-coms and a myriad of Nicholas Sparks novels have made "destiny" a joke. But sitting here, it is the word that I find myself thinking of in the middle of the night.

It's sad, really. The fact that I seriously claim to know my destiny when in fact, I can't even predict what will happen in the next half-second. And if destiny is a joke, but I tenaciously cling on to it, does that make my life a farce? The thoughts that I ponder night after night have strangely mutated from grim to comical. And for some reason, that makes me think of Shakespeare.