I was never brief. And my thoughts were always clumsy and incoherent. Stepping onto each other’s feet. Making noise as they stumble and stagger on the stairs. Escaleras. Learning Spanish has not helped me thus far. And it has not improved. Thus far. I am interested. Thus far. But I am not receiving the sufficient amount of knowledge. The amount I call satisfying. Thus far.
Once you use a phrase or a word, or whatever part of speech, or not speech but something,  anything, it becomes useless. It becomes boring. It becomes a burden. It is not exciting and artsy and fancy and does not trigger the reader’s curiosity. It just becomes nothing. And it hinders. With everything. Like the short sentences. They’re frightfully addictive. You know, once you start, you can’t stop. And your speech becomes less and less formulated. And. Clear.
Once you are acquainted with something well enough for it to be no longer surprising nor meaningful to you, it becomes a thing you want to throw out, to toss out, to just drive away from yourself and your head and your thoughts. You feel that as long as it resides inside of you, you cannot be free.
It somehow is heavy. It weighs.
I never learned anything from anything. I think. Or worse. I learned everything from something. I learned everything from someone.


I never learned anything from myself. Or have I? Because as far as I can remember, I’ve always searched inside myself.
To find.
Anything. Anything at all, that’d help me get through certain events in my life.
My life. It’s been so insufficient. I can’t recall to doing great things. I can’t reminisce utterly interesting and exciting events that it comprises. I cannot think of anything that makes it incredibly special; or, let’s put it other way, that makes it special at all.


The more you search, the more you realise there’s so much left to be discovered.
The more you search, the clearer becomes the thought that there won’t be enough time.
There is never enough time.


I want to do something. I want to tell something. I want to feel something.
Instead, I do nothing. I say nothing. I feel nothing.

And I’m not completely sure it’s all my fault – and if it is – how can I fix this?

I wonder how many things are still ahead of me.


I love food. I love to look at it, I love to cook it, I love to eat it. I have issues with it. I’m a tough lover.

This is a retrospective year. Thus far. I don’t know why but I feel it is. I remember things. Things remind me of things. I listen to music I’ve already listened to, I’ve already discovered. Not that it’s a bad thing, but I always want to find new music. I remember days. I remember moments. I remember scents. Weather. People. But least of all, I remember me.


I love pictures. Images. Photographs. Name them as you’d like. I like the way they express things.

As we’ve already acknowledged, I cannot express most of what I want to say.

So I’m going to envision it.

This is why.

This is something I am.

^This is something I wish for.

This, too.

This is something resembling something I made.

This is somewhere I’d like to be.

This is something I’d be happy to receive.

This is something. Pretty in Pink.

and so on, and so on

I can’t go any further due to lack of sleep. Okay, not exactly lack but insufficiency. Did I overuse this word today? Nevermind, at least I won’t forget it soon.

I need to talk again. I need to speak again.


I don’t think I’ve lost my muchness. Actually, there might be too much muchness in me since I can’t stop talking and doing everything I’m doing once I start doing it. I’m so obsessive and tedious.


I haven’t finished yet.


I am not as obsessed with material things as I seem to be here.

One thought on “

  1. =))
    тидиъс не е толкова зле, няма нужда да обяснявам защо:Д

    //утре ще ти се обадя

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