Life is a pile of crap. It smells like crap, sometimes. Other times it smells like the beautiful man, that you want in your pants. Life also seems to be filled with other people, who just sit around, enjoying telling you how to live your life better. Oh, no! That sentence is too long. And I have been told my whole life I shouldn't write them as long. I am truly sorry about the feel of globalization in the above sentences. I wanted to say "my life". My life is also a song, one very long, melancholia-filled song. And it is filled of people, who always tell me what to do. Not that I listen. My life should be filled by my own mistakes.
I don't know what to write about any more. Do I seem egocentric writing about myself? I don't even need the answer to that one. I can write about fear, or keep blubbering about how breathtaking the clouds on a rainy day are. But would you want to read about that? My truth to be told, I think people don't do what they do in order to be happy, not any more. It feels like happiness is most loved, when around the corner from it. Something terrible has happened to all of us, to some of you, and to me, and now we don't know how to live with happiness. Maybe our idea of self-worth suffered such a sick transformation, that we now believe we can only win it over, locked in the cage of demeaning, inhumane tortures.
What always fails to be said is that self-worth can't be won over, same goes for happiness. Those are not a foolish chimera, they are here, they are now. Only the sorry-ass cowards choose to be miserable. 'Cuz it's easier that way. You can always be miserable. Just as you can always choose to be happy. I promise one day to stop writing and my words would be "So long suckers!" But for now I chose writing, because it feels like home, it feels like happiness.
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