Have you ever felt, out of control?

Unstable, erratic.

Sometimes I think to myself:

“Life is short and no one’s gonna remember you anyway.”

No one cares when you’re alive and no one will care when you are dead. 

Yet is that ever truly so? I think people do care for others, maybe not always. But perhaps these caring gestures are often the ones that go unnoticed if not scrutinised by the naked eye.

However if you asked me to name a caring action I would not be able to answer you at all. And I think this is because we are often so used to receiving, that oftentimes positive actions are overshadowed by the negativity in our lives.

When’s the last time you remembered someone doing something nice for you?

Ah, I don’t know. My mind is overflowing with thoughts and dreams. Sometimes I liken myself to being a paradox because I am simply two people at the same time. One erratic soul with no idea as to how to live life to one mind as calm as the sea of the orange morning light.

Well, that’s what happens when you’re an optimistic realist I suppose.

They used to call me fickle-minded, and for a long time I thought that of myself as well. I lose interest so quickly and move on quickly to the next big, exciting thing in life. It is probably why I have many skills and interests, yet many are undeveloped and will stay that way forever. 

Sometimes I feel like I should go back and start over that interest, yet I just can’t find a reason to go back. Why would I? I’ve tried it, liked it; vaguely and now it’s time to move on and try other stuff. 

Even if I did like it and it made me happy, I still wouldn’t stay again. 

“Ok cool, what’s next?”

I am genuinely interested, but what else do you have in store for me? I just need a bank of knowledge to store in my brain. Anything redundant can be scraped. It’s just a matter of digging through all the haystacks to find that needle.

Supposed I did find the needle, what am I going to do with it? And now, that’s another question to be answered.

It really feels good to write unfiltered, uncensored. No paragraphing to be marked nor linking back to the topic. Everything my train of thoughts lead me to— I write and write and write.

I want to do this again, but I fear it may not look pretty, my writing that is. Then again, who cares what people think? Then again, beauty is an art form admired and worshipped by many.

I wish to paint again. I just can’t find the reason to anymore. I loved it once. I love it still. 

But I never go back.


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