As I stare at the gray wall on our room.. Everything seems blank. Clear pages. Book's texts fade.
I don't want to live where everything is dull.
How many colors do we have? Wouldn't it turns out weard to be painted all in a piece.. In a part?
The real thing is... I'm troubled. Have some doubt.
See how a picture of things from our mind on concentration had brought up the reflection of what we truly feel?
I'm not a psychologist. I just know it's a mind related thing.
Have you tried assessing yourself up in a different way like this?
Sometimes i think this is an art. Or it surely is and I'm not just aware that it really is? I don't know but i badly hope so. All i know is that this weard thing in me satisfy me most of the time. It's like visualizing things and depicting what it might mean as long as I can.
This things leads me to love writing. It brings out the uniqueness in me which is later I don't just want to keep for myself.
I feel sharing would be something more than sharing it is. Not just for my own growth.. Not just to have me listened or to be understood. Not just to help by feeding my insights to troubled, my thoughts to someone might asking for opinion. Nor for the sake of the essence of writing.
I just feel it running through my veins!
I just love writing and it's not me without it.