Caminante, son tus huellas / el camino, y nada más; / caminante, no hay camino . . . it was a poem I was falling in love with, I think. I must’ve been, because I’d whisper a couple of lines from it to myself or to the cobwebs: Wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. The poem tells me it’s no big deal that I’m not like Snow. I can be another thing; I’m meant to be another thing.
— Feb 05, 2021 12:36PM
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