I reached my 50th summer book.
All quite large, some impressive, some stupidly and incredibly bad.
Mostly average, just like the person who got into reading them with such passion.
School starts next week and I am not even sad or revolted- which is weird, weird, oh so weird.
I’ve been away these past two weeks – travelling a teeny-tiny bit in my almost nice country. I saw some mountains, wandered in some woods , touched the sea, breathed polluted air. Met some beautiful people, been scared by others, failed remarkably and cried a little bit too much for I am so so so weak. Incredibly weak.
I am home again, now. And I am tired and hollow and literally expressing my feelings like some hormonal teen girl on tumblr. Oh wait. I am a freaking teenager. Proceed with caution.
Oh, wait another second, my jokes are bad and my life is sad. Or.. maybe not.
God, I am totally ungrateful for my chances. I should be. Different.
I felt like writing because I like talking and I have nobody to talk to or nobody to get me or nobody that refuses to blame me for things.
You see, I really function like a failure.
But that is quite fine, I suppose.
Unless you are a lonely and quite impossible to understand failuresque person, like myself.
I’m going to stop now, for my coherence is gone.
I don’t know where.
P.S. My country is beautiful, you should come around sometimes.
P.P.S. Problem is.. it is in my head, but you probably can enter it through my ear, even if I don’t have nice ears, I am not an elf.
P.P.P.S. I’ve just had a revelation. I think van Gogh cut his ear to let people in his nice country. People refused and thought he was mad. He probably died believing it as well.