**opens the letter**

Dear Drafts,

I'm sorry.

I didn't know a proper way to start a letter to you without apologizing for all the time I've bailed on you. I don't have much to say and it's pathetic that it's just the start of a letter but... But I don't know what to say. But I'll try.

I've spent countless hours imagining and hundred? maybe hundreds of hours writing you and there you are, Laying lifeless. Yet to be published. Waiting for your turns to be scanned through someone's eyes, processed into a pictorial movie scene hoping to deliver a message. A message that once I wanted to convey? Maybe I still want to? I don't know.

You see I've never been sure about anything, I'm shy. I hate to be judged and I scared to be critiqued even though I know it's just for the better. But....... but I'm scared. It's infinitely time harder and excruciatingly painful when I can't live up to my own expectations. I am not scared of being judged by others. But I know I'll eventually judge myself.

The stories, the characters, the scene, the life...... the life I wanted to bloom in you, I don't know if that life shines as bright? or if it even shines at all. I'm scared of myself. I'm scared if I lived up to my own expectations of living my own stories.

I am a writer, weaving words into sentences and sentences to stories is my job. I love my job. But I'm afraid I'm not good enough. My drafts, you are the extension of my imagination, dare I say my own being. I like to write. But I'm scared to be a writer.

This letter is nothing but a hypocrite being honest. A clueless being. A result of wearing his heart on his sleeves. It's nothing but a confession letter of a hopeless romantic towards his love.

Regards,

Ash

                            **closes the letter**

                                    ENVELOPE

                                 With regards,

                    To my unpublished drafts.

                          Address : clouds