A seventy year old me , would pain in not putting in effort for the things I want
Would try to peep in their hearts than their social media accounts
Would love to sleep in a dark night wrapped along a blanket of stars
Would still wait for a love letter
Would not be as fragile to worthless situations
Would not be scared to be lonely.
A seventy year old me would be the outcome of managing persistent worse situations, on bearing utter patience and moderation. If that it’s going to be.
Believe me, I can’t wait to grow old.