Little Romance.

I deleted a couple of posts which I think they don't belong. I don't wish to lose the identity of my this little private space online. If so you thought there might be an identity, call it individuality. If you can't think of it as anywhere near an identity, suit yourself.

I am really quite keen on picking up guitar again. And ugh, my guitar is no longer sitting in my storeroom. Mom threw it away. I have been listening to a lot of Ingrid Michaelson recently, and just in case you do not know who she is (I'm not surprise), she's a indie-pop artiste from NYC.

Tim Burton is throwing an art gallery displaying his pieces in NYC coming April and I wished I could fly over to attend his. Always a big fan of bizarre characters like Edward Scissorshand, and uh, what else? Hah. You'd know if you know me.

I wish I can still write the way I used to, but sadly, I seem to have lost it.

Superficiality seemed to have swept over me over the last three years. I asked, have you ever really felt a day? And I answered, no. Dust collected themselves within the pages left untouched. Words forgotten and so are life lessons. Losing sync with myself was a lousy slow roller coaster ride - no highs and full of lows. And I again, loathed myself for wasting time away not having read yet another great read, not having listened to much fancied enthralling music which better chained my emotional strings, not having written enough to shout out loud to the world, not having tried harder to remember who I am, or at least what I have done. It's always times like this, which I strongly reproach myself, and it's always times like that again, I forget.

I truly love my solitude but I want attention just like those blood suckers out there begging for it. Am I a mere commonplace in the society today? Am I already one of the millionth faces? Who was left behind amidst our walking paces? No, I won't tolerate myself to be. I won't leave her behind. Because she deserves so much more, more than anyone else. She doesn't deserve to die alone, one thing for sure.

A relationship is breakable. It is flawed in so many unimaginable ways. Like what snow patrol said, love is said too much and it is often not enough. It's a heavy word and there are so many uncalled acts to abuse it. After a curtsey, I invited you into my world, intensified with nothing else but raw emotions - which I assure no one else could have done better. You chose not to buy them this way, so perhaps, I'll make you beg one day. Respect is the key word here. Like what I own, ask me nicely and I'll gladly give it to you.

Last night, I laid wide eyed on my bed trying to recall the movies I've watched in the last three years. And I was a zero. This evening when I logged on, I got maxed out by a few lads whom I've known for years but do not know. Are they really my friends? Or are they just phases which belonged to a period of time, not forgotten, but never remembered? Which is more important? One which belonged to a lost realm of time or one which might potentially belong to an infinite round of ticking minutes hands?

Choices are not difficult to conjure at if we are clear at heads. Since it was a question mark I received, I have no choice but to paint you to be a larger one in my head so to better tell myself you aren't a story to be continued.

I'm coming back again.