Come Hither.

Catcher in the rye.

Maybe he's right. I am a jumble of passions, misgivings, and wants. It seems that I am always in a state of wishing and rarely in a state of contentment. Unkempt and overcaffinated, I walked forty steps to the moon.

What if this life was all there was? When I got to the end, and it was gone? What if my only experiences were sitting in libraries and turning down offers for dates? A general feeling of apprehension is a human experience, sure, but I'd got my share of that one already. What about terror and guilt, fear and excitement? What if I died without ever realizing that I was going to die?

And I realized I got my habitual overanalytical skills from Dear Mom. Now, this is disturbing. It's like a dying hunger to look beneath the physical, to decipher every word, to read between the lines.

But then again, I'm only human. I may just end up giving you a theory based on what I see through my eyes, and the wayward thoughts that my mind concocted. I was told I have the wildest imagination. Indeed. Bizarre, would be a more humble way to put it, I say.


I need to get out of the house tomorrow. Home without coffee, there's practically no air. Home makes me feel all edgy and provides that cosy, warm ambience to sit myself into a trance, reflecting. I don't need reflections right now. They make me want to slit my wrists all the time. Of all the emotions I need right now, self-pity isn't called for.

I hate it when my writing gets too personal.
I'm nobody's open book.


So I'm getting my fat ass out tomorrow.


Cheers, bedtime.


Senseless defence.