Building

i am often jealous of people who can write well. it is a joy, reading a piece of writing, perhaps about nothing at all, and yet it still makes you smile. that's good writing for me. it brings colour to an otherwise dull bunch of words. and lets face it, that's boring. black and white, over and over again. the world should be a more beautiful place, and not filled with cynical fools such as myself.

no, i am not having an existential crisis.

i guess i just want an avenue away from all the work. work is drowning me in a sea of responsibility and frustration. i miss the comforts of freedom. i'm twenty. and i feel old, only because i'm not having any fun. everyone's moving on, and i'm still stuck here waiting for december to come.

there are so many things i want to do. so many things.

cutting up the edges, creasing all the pages.

who's tearing apart this paper universe?