i should put a "fuck off" poster on my room door - so even if you have the most delicious, home-made, fresh-out-of-oven quiche, fuck off. i've never been been this stressed before. there must be some sort of perverted impulse in me to create this vague sense of perfection-ism (nonsense) by working ten hours when things can in fact be done in 5. such a drama queen.

well i needed to breathe the fresh hours and smell the sunshine. it's fucking spring and nice weather! calm down!

there is no time to go crazy, although i feel very much like doing so
gooddddd please i need to finish my work before, before,

I am lucky and blessed to have a dad who can still support my education. I never fail to remind myself this every single day. But I am also living with a sense of guilt and pressure that it shouldn’t be like this. I should working and earning my own keep at age 24, like everyone else. I should be contributing to my family instead of taking, still taking, still living like a child. I figured that life can be meaningful in a personal sense. I go abroad to find myself, to find happiness in things I love to do. But life can be most purposeless when you see it from a practical and realistic point of view. And that’s what troubles me. I can’t seem to reconcile these two sides. But I gotta get goin’.

Satellite

Solitude, it makes you turn inwards. I live on my imagination. I watch the sun beams fall on the land beneath my window. I sip my coffee and knit a story. In those moments, I am happy and completely contented. Sam visited me last weekend and it was great. We haven’t hung out since we were 17. I’d also forgotten what it was like to be in constant close proximity to another living, breathing, responding human body. The line between reality and fiction is so thin and fragile - it seems that the only way of knowing, or rather, feeling, is if another person can confirm that what you see, hear and touch, really exists. It is there. You are here. When Sam left, there was a cold, stale air of emptiness in the room. It is impossible to truly connect to anything or anyone. Everything is back to how it was. I am still preoccupied with the question of whether what I do make sense. I just can't stand the thought of drifting from day to day, disappearing into monotony, losing reason to fancy in order to escape the dull beats of life.