Something Beautiful for the Night

Well, the night breeze is cold and it makes the gold curtains sway while passing through the little holes of the screen window. I’m lying on my stomach, typing, thinking critically whether to write or not because I might end up writing about someone.. again.

I want to write something else because I think that it would make me look or sound more mature. Why? Maybe I want to be seen as a deep intellectual. Or maybe I just want my writing to feel cool. What the hell.

As much as I don’t really want to be on the spotlight, I also don’t want to be totally ignored. I mean, I still want the right kind of attention (and not too much). Why do we have to feel that we should belong? How do we even measure maturity? This might not make sense anymore. So what?

I just really wanted to write something. Some cool stuff. Some deep thoughts. Or some feelings about someone that is currently ignoring me and I want to be poetic about it. But I ended up writing somethinf random which is okay.

It’s 8:59pm. It’s still early but I want to sleep.


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