Crap

I don’t know if you feel this way, too, but by brain feels broken. The brain is clogged. I can hear but I’m not listening; can’t get a grasp of anything that’s going on. Sometimes, its so terrible that I don’t get the goosebumps listening to the music that I grew up listening. I don’t have energy to anything either. It’s exhaustive. I don’t get too nervous either. Its like I know I’m gonna fuck up and I let it be. Nothing scares me to much, I’m ready to lose the things I have forever. It’s as if I know that I’ll just adjust somehow, that I don’t really need anything, though I might actually need them. It gets worse and worse. Achievements mean nothing. Can even let the broken friendships go. I understand that people have egos and I pity them instead of arguing or anything. Doesn’t hurt when someone is terrible to me, though I might act as if it does and meant something when I made a mistake. Its me being demented. Oh bugger, do I have to publish every crap I write?

Don’t Stop

I’m exhausted to write but now is the perfect time to reveal something that I learned on my own: the reason some creative people can keep producing is if they keep producing instead of just thinking. Got a song idea, bring out guitar, record it; have a thought in your head, write it. Ergo, I just thought I had to write it down. Some people will say they knew this all along, too bad these arrogant dudes and dudettes never let it out before. If I am to publish something someday, I should keep writing. After all, I could take some lessons from Aurelius or Nietzsche, write in short paragraphs, maybe even sentences, but just write. I guess it was stupid that I stopped writing on my journal. Maybe I could have written a sentence everyday, could have at least recorded my thought and mood. I know that I almost never get back to my writings, but someday I will and I’ll understand how naive I used to be but these imperfections and confusions are what made me grow. Adios!

Rain

I’ve always loved the rain. Perhaps I loved the way the rain hits the window pane and it slowly drizzles down the window, making its way down the window sill. Then there are memories of travelling in uncle Jimmy’s car and my mama’s. These are two of my favourite persons and I love how the rain hits the front window and the wiper in one quick brush clears all the drops stuck in the pane. But my favourite of them all is being in a hostel, laying back on the wooden bench to look up in the sky how the rain gathers falls as heavy drops from the inclined roof and lands on the orange bricks. No matter how difficult the rain made my life, I’ve always loved it, and I always will. It’s raining now. Now that guarantees peaceful sleep.