I'm not a master of words. I'm nowhere near good when it comes to expressing myself. Back then when I was still unaware of this, unable to channel my feelings, I turned them all into anger. I screamed, I yelled, I cursed. And when I got tired, I cried. I was an angry child.
And then I found a better way. I ventured into sports. And all the anger was channeled to be a form of relentless energy. Hours and hours of running and hitting and panting. I tired myself until I could no longer feel nor think. And then my body couldn't cope anymore. I got tired a bit too easily, and waking up in the morning was the hardest thing to do.
And later I found back my old love: arts. Music, sketches, colors. And most importantly, this. All the letters perfectly arranged, forming words that I couldn't say myself. The written notes speak for me. I'm a coward, and my words are the only way I could escape reality.
I don't write much about myself in this blog. And this is an exception. I just feel like justifying myself to an audience of none.
