'Melancholy' by Edvard Munch, 1891

I don’t have anything particularly interesting to write about but I still feel like I need to write. Words are my therapy, and that’s something I’m greatly in need of nowadays.

I hate the phrase ‘only time will tell’. It’s impossible to just simply depend of time and expect it to cure everything, you have to manipulate it the way you want. You have to work with time itself in order for it to be good to you. Time itself will never do anything except help you mark your calendar as each day passes.

I have this thing for wanting what I can’t have. I also have unrealistic expectations from others. Combine the two, and it creates a recipe for misery.

It’s not an enjoyable situation to be in. I haven’t felt like writing for a while, and even though things finally seem to be working out for me in terms of getting freelance writing jobs, it hasn’t made me feel as good as I thought it would. But I guess that’s how it works: one thing falls apart, and something else suddenly appears all new and shiny.


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