why do I let this whiteness and greyness surround me and nothing else? last night I fell asleep relatively early because I couldn’t be bothered to stay awake. couldn’t be bothered. I know we laughed at this, but only I know how much I actually mean this. there’s a thing about me; people never know whether I am serious or not. which allows me to be honest when they are not fully listening. but still, after some time they are forced to realize that what I had told them is, in fact, reality. it makes me a perfect manipulator of people. of my own emotions. you’re not a liar until you start lying to yourself.
I am not writing. not really. I haven’t got any ideas or inspiration; no stories, no screenplays. nothing. I’ve stopped bothering myself with trivialities. my paper journals are lacking details, little notes and ideas I used to write down. everything I write has become so official, so cold. there’s no emotion anywhere. every time I try to read a book, I have to quickly put it down because I hate it. because my writing is not like that. because I see the words that could be mine, but are not. if I take away the writing, I really have nothing else to focus on. which is why I spent half of today’s afternoon writing study notes on calculus.
I am tired of this weather. I am tired.