I spent all of last night, drawing.
Mostly crap. Yeah, mostly.. utter waste of time, paper and effort. But at least I felt some sense of accomplishment when the sun told me it was 8am and my limbs were- not nagging, more like screaming at me like when your mom has to yell at you for the thirtysecond time, to go to bed, kind of way. My limbs can't be my mother, can they? I'm sure I could wrap a poem around it, and have one or two people second guess what a mother is.
I know I love my mom.
It's strange, but quite wonderful that I've actually realised this. I mean, I've known that I love my family... but never really said it out loud to myself. I am very uncertain about life itself, so the things I am sure about, helps me deal with everything. Best thing is, it doesn't have to be active, just has to be there.
I read some old journals of mine yesterday, and I have always been cynical, depressed and even indecent to the point that it gets uncomfortable to read.
But I guess, when things were okay around me, I had very little to tell. Who wants to write a journal about that one day when you were really happy, one of those blissful days when nothing bothered you, and all you did was walk around not thinking?
Unless you walked into a lightpole, there's no punch line, is there.
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