The sound of airplane.
Couple holding hands while walking in silence.
Quiet, high places.
Soft touch on the head.
Fat cat licking his butt.
Be read properly.
Right amount of sadness and loneliness.
Coolness becomes tacky.
Silence becomes mutter and non-stop shaking.
Awkward smile becomes uncontrollable laugh.
Absence becomes unbearable.
Words become poison and medicine.
Stinks become fragrance.
Dirty hair become hair-brushing.
Nothing becomes almost everything.
Not even once becomes every single time.
No one becomes the universe.
Beautiful things help me get to the right sadness.
You have such a beautiful mind.
Feeling really heartbroken to the state that tears come out for no reason is amazing, amazingly beautiful and extremely fun.
I want to be left alone only for the sake of being alone because I want to be grateful of all the attention I started to despise.
Is it still too early to ask for that?
For as long as I remember I never had much ambition in my life except getting lost in a faraway land, being able to drive a plane (which I still really want to achieve), or the biggest ambition that I am able to recall is, how I want to make everybody around me to be always happy with no exception for anybody. I want to die when at least I can be compared with Mother Teresa, or Gandhi, or Princess Diana, except that I’m always too shy so I don’t really want the world to mourn my death or anybody to remember me for centuries.
It was foolish.
Being too concerned with other people is still what I am, except when it gets too laborious and exhausting it hits me that I don’t have enough potential to reach my ambition. It makes me angry almost all the time because I realize regardless of my intention somebody will poison me to death or assassinate me at the end because no one, could ever, satisfy every single person at the same time.
What I want to achieve is not even good because it’s stupid, and it’s absurd, and it’s not a bit feasible, but I still can’t stop being angry because stop giving a fuck at everything is fucking difficult it hurts.
I found it a little harder to whine when I’m living everyday like it’s my last.
Every passing day I used to hope that it would actually be my last.
But now, as I’m getting fond of every feeling, savoring every breath that gives me life, appreciating the most trivial,
death is becoming such a horrifying concept that I do not wish to experience today, nor tomorrow, nor next year, nor another 10 years from now.
I really really don’t want to disappear just yet.
Are you sure?
In your face, lofty bitch.