I think we write because it feels as if all we have to say is only a waste of time. Nobody is there to take all of this in, except a blank page, waiting. That page, is the most comforting vision in this world-- except when it's for my essay. There are always exceptions in life, unfortunate at times.
On New Year's Eve, I stayed in bed all day. On New Year's day, I'd have to stay glued to my chair all day, tearing my hair out in an effort to churn out 3000 words on something I do not care for. Really, I thought that by 2017 I'd have found my purpose. Instead, I'm still sinking in my sheets, letting the pleasures of idleness whisper wonderful promises beside my ears.
Who am I living for? Myself. Myself. Myself. Of course. Sigh. There's always a possibility that that's what people need me to believe, in order to survive.
I've always thought that I should go stay at temples for a few weeks to try to find a reason to stay alive. Maybe next summer I should stay with my aunt for 3 months, learn Thai and find peace with myself. If I stay long enough, there's a possibility that I'll learn to smile as well.
Hmm... I wanted to tell you that I'm heartbroken because I realised all that I have to say is pointless. Even you, who I thought would always listen...
Meh.
Happy New Year.
I'm not kissing anybody three times on the cheeks this year.
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