writing is an indulgence for me. words don't flow out of me like a river, or flutter around like butterflies,they are very scarce and difficult...i think it's mostly because of poor,careless vocabulary. sometimes i care about drinking coffee in the early mornings or crave for a late night cigarette, likewise i care about writing.
i like to believe that i'm this adventurous, tough and spontaneous individual holding a big fuck you sign to the world, but i'm just fantasizing...most days i don't get out of bed, i stare at the walls, sit in front of my tiny laptop and scroll through pages and pages of mind dulling trivialities. i wonder if i'm easily entertained, i can laugh for hours at some silly third grade joke my friends throw around, patiently listen to absolutely dull talk with a smile plastered to my face, most times without the realization that all this isn't fun at all for me and i'd much rather smoke alone instead.
dreary times.