HOW'S IT GONNA END

I don't read. It's better this way, I suppose. It's better not to do something than do it for wrong reasons. And I have a lot of those. I read because I want to get finished with a story. Focus on it? I don't think so, no. I get impatient; too impatient to even recall when I began to be like this. Too impatient to go on writing; yet, too stubborn to stop. Too stubborn to put the book away; too proud to admit it. You know it; I know you do. And it knows you. And if I know all this and myself.. What makes me so

At that point, the ink-like content of my pen refused to ooze out. How perversely ironic.

AND LISTEN TO THE WIND BLOW..

Booooooo-hooooooo, it keeps moaning outside and inside. I should probably run or something. I should probably live or something. Everything seems to be so much in motion again and so out of reach. As if four shabby walls could stop me from.. whatever there is to stop me from. Instead of refreshing breeze on my cheek I get slapped by those little innermost hands of justice. I just wish I could be both straight and forward.