I am reading novels and watching films just to escape how dull my life is. I daydream about multitude of scenes in which I am those characters I read or watch; hoping my life is the same with theirs. Am I just being too ungrateful or expecting too much about life? How come there is always melancholy in my chest? I want to stop crying and feeling how empty I am, but right now, I just cannot. Solitude embitters me, although I always refuse to admit. It’s hard . . . going on.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
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