from a journey to my own self
In the past 2 months I spent away from home, I kept a journal, like I usually do whenever I go abroad somewhere interesting.
I found that, after those conversation with my own self, I grew a deeper understanding of it.
I might have known that fact before, but I have not seen through it yet until I realise it myself after a constant implementation, not an irregular one like what I'm doing now.
I like to be inspired. I like to discover how people are putting changes into this world. I like to know about people that chase their dreams.
But I never have a courage to start out and follow my inspirations, there are always excuses I've made up, and most of them even sounded feeble.
I like to observe. I like to find out trivial information about people, things or places, in the hope that someday it will help me, an eternal inhabitant of the dark corner, to be noticeable.
But I never even dare to show myself up, dare to escape from that accustomed comfort, and at last found myself desperately envy other people whom friendliness is their nature.
What am I? Just a selfish free radical, a reckless coward, an overly sensitive solitary.
I hate myself. I'm such a loser.
