I haven't been blogging in aeons to count. My writing juices were dried up when it's scorching sunny, and washed away when it's raining. I haven't have much to talk about to anyone or be it here anyway, besides the usual gossips I do at work, and the usual casual conversations with apologetic strangers. I am a slave to my wage. It is now officially my master and its manipulative powers have me totally under control. That's about it, that's about me now.
And I hate it when I can barely squeeze time out to read. Money and soul don't work together when shallowness is the opposite of depth. My boyfriend doesn't read my blog, my boyfriend doesn't read, and it bothers me. And what I have been idealising isn't my special want. It's singular, it's a living transition and it is a need. It got away last December, and it is soon to be free from the past two chained years this coming September.
I am a stranger. I am a living passed phase.
It is soon to be, the death anniversary of Mr Fingerme. And the presence of Miss Fingeryou hasn't been felt. So long, I have forgotten how they even come to existence in the first place. Time - what a weird natural catastrophe.
"You don't want to hurt me,
But see how deep the bullet lies.
Unaware that I'm tearing you asunder.
There's a thunder in our hearts, baby."
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