somehow all the hurt hidden deep within myself surfaced within my unconscious recently. i know i forced myself to bury the pain deep within. if you asked, i'm happy, contented, but with a slight whiff of discomfort. i guess i never realised how far i'm actually gone to appear happy, to seem cheerful. but when it all surfaces, it feels like im unleashing something really dark, conceited and full of vengence.

i realised why recently i dislike to read fiction. fiction is having to put yourself into the story, plunging headlong into the plot. that is what i dislike. i'd rather keep my stoic-ness. the lack of emotions is easier to deal with than a flood of something you cant control. i dont like to be caught up inside a story. it makes me ponder too much and unnecessarily. i'd rather be keep so busy i dont have time to think. it makes the day pass faster and the nights bearable. i'll be so tired i dont have the time to think or reflect.

i like non fiction books. that's where i seek my numerical explanation for why everything is the way it is. at least i think i know.



do you love me?
silence