whiney me.

because i am inactive and in doubt. i am anxious and empty. there is a weird taste in my mouth. the taste of stale cigarettes and of the minutes being wasted away. i have come to that place where i do not know where i exactly am. it seems that my unfinished fiction is far from the climax, farther from any resolution.

sitting in the middle of the room feels like floating in the middle of the sea. huge waves do not drown me but rather make me feel sick. it's like being churned unendlessly, without any definite direction, without any control. there's salt in my mouth.

and i try to make myself better now after i have decided to write my own fiction. and sometimes i dream that it's true. but being here, right now, i still have questions. and whether this will end soon or not, following my plot still gets me nowhere.

and i do not feel anything. but i wait still.



so' i'll be a barista or something. why not? can't you feel the excitement?