andiecrafts

I was born to write. Which surprises me to no extent as every path life happens to lay before me leads everywhere but writing. I have not written in quite a while, as I have never had the time, but then, a 24-hour day has always been too short for creatures of our speed.

It pains me to know that someday, I might end up looking back to this day and regret being alive, well, if you call an existence founded on the meager acts of breathing, eating, sleeping, and every little boring thing in between as living. I have just started reading The Zahir by Paolo Coehlo, and I cannot help but feel that it was written for the sole purpose of making me miserable. Miserable in knowing that I can do so many things if I gave myself the chance to break out of the meaningless existence which I painstakingly molded for my self. How pathetic.

There are so many things I want to do in this life. But year, after year, after year, passes, with me not experiencing even one of those adventures. Frankly, I am so bored with my life, I am beginning to wonder what my motivation for survival is. I find it difficult to wake up every morning, and I find it even more difficult to enter the classes whose purpose for existing remains a mystery still. I am so fed up with this abomination, though that is no wonder at all. The greatest mystery of all is why I have not put an end to this piece of abomination. An abomination better known as my life.

I am not suicidal. Just bored. To death. But the more I get to think of it, I am the one boring myself to death, and isn’t that just a perfectly sad way of committing suicide?

Do not be alarmed. I am not feeling as bad as I may seem. I am just disappointed for so many things. I am angry at the fact that my classmate has failed to return my book yet. I am angry at the fact that I cannot study because I do not have the book, which I so stupidly allowed my über responsible prodigy of a classmate to borrow. I am angry at the fact that I was so stupid so as to let my book be borrowed by some piece of, well, you must know what I mean. I am angry at the fact that nobody takes me seriously. I am angry at the fact that nobody understands me at all. Which is actually funny since I rarely give anybody the chance to know me. I guess anger has been a part of my soul, and that taking it away would be the death of me.

I have not written in such a long while. And not writing makes me know less about myself. I find that painful. So much so that I am on the verge of crying right now.