Just felt the urge to at least let something out. 

I've been playing easy all along, but god knows since day one to be at ease has been the most difficult. Despite the rub, I've never regretted that one step out. I have never liked the world this much, and it all started that day.

Might surprise you but I honestly hate to write. Who wants to write all painfully alone if they've got the gut to simply yell whatever's on their mind and meet whoever they like? Who draws melancholic analogies if they could be all carelessly realistic? Who does monologues if they would ever allow themselves for people to converse with? I hate that I'm always slow and clumsy and foolishly murky, and I'm sorry for receiving so much while giving hardly any.

I have not expressed my sincerity in the most sincere ways. All I've ever tried were telepathy, dreaming and daydreaming. But I do intend, so much so badly, to make every wish and promise count, and carry out the unfinished.

At this point I don't know how to keep on writing, might be that I'll be revealing myself while I am not yet ready. Just see how lame I am at writing and how desperate I am to still be filling these lines for the subtexts to be read.