sketchablepaperfold

an aiming to be designer, with the soul of a writer

Tag: confessions

About the [un] written

After avoiding myself for so long, I’m starting to feel that urge [that almost desperate urge] to return, to come back to this insane analysis [or, in other words, my self-taught therapy]

Besides truly missing this, I need to come back. It is not a matter of will anymore. Right now, it is a need – an overwhelming need, by the way.

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The Quote

“I do not know, but happiness is within my grasp and I cannot help myself”

One of the greatest sentences that Jane Austen said on Becoming Jane. Gosh, I feel exactly like her.

[and it feels sooo great that I can’t almost find the words to explain]

I mean, I could actually write about it, but it would absolutely be novel-like, and it would take me a lot of time to write it.

By the way, one great event I’ve experienced last week made me want to start another period novel – just to include it in a masterpiece and write even more about it.

[yes, because I’ve already wrote pages about a few seconds, and I can’t get it out of my mind. Oh, and of course, that moment was exactly what led me to remember the quote, and want to pursue and achieve my happiness, instead of simply remaining quiet, waiting for its arrival]

Living Between Several Passions

I often wonder if it’s enough. Drawing to earn my life, while living, in so many ways, for writing.

I wonder if I chose the right way, if it’s the right thing for me, if it’s really what I want to do.

I’m not trying to say I don’t love fashion, drawing, design, art in general – that would be the ultimate lie, and I’m simply not able to say it. Yet, writing is like breathing to me. It’s the thing that catches my breath, that prevents my heart from beating, the only thing I want and need to do when my thoughts are overwhelmed.

I always remember passing by my college – without having the smallest idea of what it was – and wonder about it. Thinking something like what are those two grey buildings over there? I never got the answer, until the day I actually went there. After a long while of tears, pain and suffering, I’ve actually felt home there. I felt like I was really supposed to be there, and wouldn’t picture my life in a different way.

I read college programs, many abroad, and I dream about seeing my collection in a catwalk, waving at the end of a show; about casually finding one of my pieces on a magazine, or reading my very own interviews as a designer. But I can’t help wondering if it’s enough.

In the other hand, if I had chosen a writing related course, everything would have been so different. I wouldn’t have lived half of the things I lived, wouldn’t have met none of the people I met – and who mean so much to me – ; probably, would have kept sat at the bottom of the mainstream, and wouldn’t have turned in the person I am today.

I don’t regret my choice, but sometimes, I find myself feeling my heart tighten, and this particular anguish whose provenance hasn’t been released – at least, not for me. I don’t know if I’m deceiving myself, and that doubt, that absence of answers [and also of ways to find them] destroys me, piece by piece.

As I’ve already made clear, I do love fashion and design, but I also love photography [the magic of the moment you keep safe in your memory for an entire eternity is something that I just can’t explain properly. It’s like I could go back in time, whenever I wanted. As if someone could actually stop the time, and have it as one wishes] and, of course, I’m so devoted to writing, painting scenes, pictures, entire exhibitions in my mind, and describing them with my very own words, without getting close to an end.

In a certain way, writing and drawing have always been together in my life. When working on actual projects, like novels, I always draw the places where my story happens. I carefully draw the houses and plan their inside, placing objects in order to give more reality to my scenes, and to allow everyone to imagine the actual place without problems. Of course, I also think about the way the characters are dressed, and even research – when writing a period romance – , to find out how was life in that time.

Surely, design has a strong connection with writing, since the entire history of design was built by designers and architects, people who worked with design… But the authentic question is: will it work for me? Will I be happy just devoting a part of my existence to words, while devoting the other part to fashion design? Will I be able to manage my love for photography, too? Will I ever feel complete, living like that, without having one passion – like everyone else does – but several meaningful ones? Will I find the time, the willingness, the strength to dedicate myself, with all of my heart to design, so that I can sincerely improve, and still do everything else? Will I ever manage my time correctly, so that I can do everything I love?

In the end, it all comes to one question: who the hell am I? What do I want? 

Will I ever find those answers, the real ones? And will I ever cease the anguish I have, exactly because I don’t know them?

So many things, so little time. Gosh, I often feel like my head is a few minutes to blow. I keep thinking, and don’t seem to find a thing. Soon, September will arrive and I’ll need to prove that I deserve the place I have in that Fashion Design class. I have to be stunningly great, yes, I do. Yet, I wonder where will I find the strength to do it; what is, in the end, my carrot, the goal I want to achieve and will make me fight , no matter what, to get it.

Gosh, Amy, take a breath. Or, better, start acting. You can’t stay like this any longer. You can’t wait anymore. You need to do something. 

It Was – Simply – A Matter of Blindness

I’ve been struggling with a thought for a while.

After being away from the one I allowed to cause me the massive heartbreak I mentioned on My Very Own Hard Way to Self-Forgiveness for almost two years, lately, I was feeling slightly inclined to check on his online life. I resisted – a lot, I must confess. I thought it’d be a terrible choice, since I’d probably want to recover everything I thought we had. So, I was always saying to myself: Amy, you don’t want to do this to yourself. Not again.

Yet, today, I gave in. I truly did, even knowing what it could do to me. I gave in, in spite of being aware of the shock that would, doubtless, attain me. I confess that I didn’t seem to succeed in holding on resistance anymore. I was, actually, feeling the need to have, at least, a small idea of how he’s been doing.

In a way that looked completely weird and unexpected to me, things quite didn’t happen the way I suppose they would.

The first sign of weirdness and that a lot of time had gone by since I left him was that I didn’t remember the name of his online page. I truly had to search, and search, and search [almost dig, to be honest] in my brain to find the name, and, consequently, the page.

The second evident sign was that I didn’t feel like crying nor my heart ache [things that always happened, before].

The third sign of everything but normality. Well, I must confess that the whole page kinda freaked me out. [haha, I know I don’t usually write like that, but that was the most sincere way of explaining the moment]

I truly felt scared for the things I was seeing, related to the one that used to be my home. [Just remembering, there was one or another time I’ve felt scared, but – as always – I made the whole set look just fine] I felt exactly as if I had entered a horror movie without being properly warned, or as if I was watching a weird scene at a thriller. The kind of thing that leaves you uncomfortable, you know?

I wandered through his photos, obviously, and each and every single one of them led me to the same thought: “this guy is so lost”. To say the truth, he was already weird when we met but, as time went by, he got worse. The tenderness of his look that I knew so well is simply… gone. I did everything I could while we were together – more than what I should have done, probably – but I did it. So, nothing represents a weight in my consciousness.

Anyway, I couldn’t avoid thinking about who I was, back then. I really thought about that girl who devoted to him in a way she shouldn’t have, the girl who is also gone.

I simply wonder how she could find hope in someone who she knew that was falling apart, how she felt he was home, how she turned him in the center of her existence.

I wonder how she couldn’t see the truth, in all the times she said her life would never be bearable again, because she’d lost him once and for all. I wonder why she did it all. I wonder how could she hide the truth to her own eyes, pretend everything was just fine, devastating herself in order not to upset him with her opinions, thoughts and actions.

And, of course, I still think that is relatively weird for me to say that if he ever needed anything, regretted of his own choices and wanted to be a different, better person, I’d be around – in the friend zone, obviously, because unlike her, I know that’s not a healthy option and it’s not the best thing for me; but I’d be there to help him.

Well, she didn’t know how life would be without him and, also, she wouldn’t even suspect how free she’d feel when, finally, she could be able to do what she actually wanted to, without worrying about his opinion.

I can’t say that love, in general, has blind people as main characters. What I can say – exactly because I’ve been there – is that this case was, doubtless, a matter of blindness.

I confess that I had been quite nostalgic before seeing who he is now, remembering the past and the like… But, I also must confess that when I saw it and grasped the reality, I became utterly sure that the story wasn’t, at all, meant to be, and that I didn’t need to put myself in that sort of situation again.

Maybe resisting wasn’t the best move. Maybe what I really needed was to know that the one I had in my memories was actually gone. Probably, what I truly needed was to see reality as it is, and not through my charming, dream effect lenses.

Yes, I may be right this time. Watching all that made me see that I don’t want it. Not anymore. And, that way, I feel way more relieved.

So, from now on, no more haunting dates, no more haunting feelings. No more sense of weirdness. None of those things.

From now on, it’s just me, starting over. A little later than what it was supposed to be, but way more mature than before.

William or Words To My Beloved

I wish I would know how to start this, my love. I wish I would.

I wish I had you right next to me, instead of needing to write this – that’s the truth, the actual one. The truth that holds no lie, no omission – nothing but all I’ve always hide and denied.

I miss you, William – more than words can describe. It’s been a long, long time since the last time I saw you; since the last time your smile brightened my existence just for being around; since your eyes caught mine and I felt so embarrassed I had to look away, fearing that you could notice the brightness I wasn’t allowed to avoid.

I wish I had been allowed to say how much I care for you, that I didn’t have to restrain myself every time I wanted to be in your arms.

Oh William, how I wish things could have been different – you’ve no idea of how much.

But no, I can’t stay, love, even though it breaks me into small pieces. I can’t stand the idea of giving you what I’ve got, and I wouldn’t forgive myself if I ever got to hurt you. I just can’t, William.

Of course I don’t seem to be able to forgive myself for this, for not being good enough to have you, for being broken and needing time to figure out who I am, to mend and move on.

I’m so sorry, William, so sorry. Specially because I know you’d say you’d help me to find all the answers I need, and I simply can’t take that offer. I can’t put you into the situation I’ve already handled – trying to heal someone who needs time and reflection.

Don’t even try to think I don’t love you, William. Please, don’t – I loved you since the first time you smiled at me, a long, long time ago. And that’s exactly why I don’t want to cause you pain.

Still, I miss you. And, to be honest, if I could, I’d go back in time and tell you about my feelings while you were near me, while, in a certain way, I had you. But no: one, I can’t turn back time; and two, I never told you because I was afraid to lose you.

Anyway, I ended up loosing you. And now, you’re gone without a clear reason, without a word. Now, I’m alone, missing you despite having figured out I need to be on my own to pick up the pieces and rebuilt my existence.

I never thought I’d lose you, love. Not like this. Not when I thought everything would change, that I’d feel whole again. Not when I had finally found exactly what I’ve always searched. Not when you looked at me that way and I knew, I truly knew you loved me back. Not when I tried to extend each and every single farewell. Not when I wanted to be in your arms, endlessly. Not when we had such a beautiful, tender connection.

I never thought it would end up like this, the way I’d never imagine, the non obvious way, the one I’d never saw coming closer.

We had everything to be great – if I wasn’t that broken and needed to be certain about my own choices. We had, not anymore.

At this time, I can only wish that, one day, when I’m completely aware of myself, it could be different, and we’re finally allowed to be with each other, like we truly wanted to.

In the meantime, I’ll be away.

I’ll miss you, love. Everyday. But it’s the best thing to do, and the best time to do it. I need to clear my mind. I just couldn’t delay it anymore.

First and foremost, I need to know who I am, what I want to do, where do I see myself in a few years, which are my dreams and fight for them with all I’ve got, with all my soul.

Then, I’ll feel good enough to return.

My Very Own Hard Way to Self-Forgiveness

I’m concluding that self-forgiveness is quite the hardest way to forgive. I mean, when someone you love does something “wrong”, you scream, you cry, you feel disappointed; but then, you get over it, you forgive the person and life goes on. You know that people do not act according to your own principles, you try to grasp that concept and try to reach the stage of acceptance.

Nevertheless, when it comes to self-forgiveness, the whole picture becomes worse. You have no one to blame, but yourself. You can’t use the strategy of understanding and accepting differences. You just can’t.

Yesterday, I was wandering through my ancient journals, trying to find any words, reflections about the reason that led me to choose the Arts field, instead of another one. I truly believed that, at some point, I would have written something about it. I’ve read 6th and 7th grade ones – which had five pages, each – and found nothing. Then, I started reading the 8th grade journal, the most complete one.

It was my final hope, since I haven’t found anything before, and I just returned to journaling during the summer after 9th grade (time when the choice was already made, and which I relatively remember). After reading a few pages and finding nothing on the subject, I decided to use the finder, and search the word Art. Again, I found nothing.

In the end, all I could read were silly things. No reflection, no thoughts on the future, no writing about stuff worth reading years later. All of those pages were filled with nonsense according to the following scheme:

Day 1 – I’m so in love with Subject A. I truly hope that we’re meant to be!

Day 2 – I’ve been talking a lot with Subject B. I think I might have a crush on him.

Day 3 – OMG, I’m so into Subject A!

Day 4Subject C asked me on a date. I don’t know if I should go, since I’m completely into Subject B!

Day 5 – Date with Subject C was great! I think I’m in love with him.

And this crap goes on and on and on during… let’s say: four years, I guess.

The world can’t have the smallest idea of how bad I felt when I read those pages. I had the vague idea that my life had been relatively normal, and that I had written something worth my own reading. After all, it couldn’t be further from what I thought!

This is actually my point with self-forgiveness. It’s been four years since I left 9th grade and all it implied. Now, I had no idea of who I was, back then. In the end, my idea of myself was completely wrong.

My current idea involved the existence of a brain, and not such hideous stuff! I had no idea that I was so confuse, always changing my “feelings” [honestly think they were only sensations, but ok]. I would never think that I was so in and out of love that easily.

Honestly, it all made me think about the present. I’ve recently found out that I wasn’t trying to do the right thing. I’ve already introduced you to B, the one I’ve been liking since almost two years ago.

To make to long story short, I had a massive heartbreak a few months before meeting B [and when I say massive, I really mean it. I’m totally aware that it’s not exaggeration] . For that exact reason, I spent half-year denying my feeling, saying that I was only trying to get him back. After a long time of reflection, I concluded that I was ready to start over.

Yet, recently I started to feel nostalgic, and missing all the things I had with him [despite he was not even close to be the right person for me]. It took a while to figure out that I was, truly, missing all the concept I had given him, since I was completely devoted to him. Of course, it’s hard to heal from that sort of injury. And that was the moment when I noticed that besides liking B, I was actually trying to replace what I had lost, and to find someone who could actually be my home again.

Wrong, wrong move. Silly Amy. You’re so silly!

In spite of trying to be fine on my own, I was willing to head back to a relationship [with someone who doesn’t deserve to be mistaken and broken by me, let’s say. Just thinking about hurting him breaks my heart]  Now, just imagine how insane I felt when I finally realized that’s exactly what I’ve done my entire life. It simply ruined the image I had of myself. Worse, I could even try to accept doing this at 12 or 13. But doing this at my age, nowadays, even in an unconscious way [which is the case] makes me sick.

Forgiveness of our very own mistakes. Self-forgiveness. Gosh, it is hard. The only thing I can do now it’s to accept that, and stop feeling “attracted” to everyone that’s nice to me. It’s so sick, and I don’t like it. Not at all. I wonder how I spent so long doing that, without even noticing. Sometimes ignorance is considered a blessing. This time, I’m absolutely sure it was awful.

Hurray, Amy. You really screwed up. You’ve finally hit the guilt course, and the collision was a lot harder than you expected.

[I wonder how will I cope]

The Unsent Letter

[This will be a different sort of post. I confess that it’s stuck on my throat, and I don’t seem to be able to handle it anymore without writing. I believe it’s called addiction, right?!]

Diane,

I don’t even know exactly how I should start this, which words should I use to say everything that’s been compressed in my throat for a while.

I have no idea how we’ve come this far. It’s been almost a month since the last time we spoke. A month, you know?! An entire month.

I got worried, I wrote you. Short sentences, few words, I know, but that’s all I could do. If you were really trying to be away, or if something was actually happening, you wouldn’t feel like talking or writing for hours – I know that. I tried to reach you in different ways, different days, so that you didn’t feel pressured. You never replied.

I would try to go to your place, but I know that also wouldn’t work. So, I was just left with staying here. Nothing to say, nothing to do but to wait. Wait, without knowing how long it would take for you to even mention that you were alive. Without knowing what was happening, after all.

I wish you would, at least, give me some answers. Some real answers, you know?! At least, once.

Yes, I wish I had them. Because being here, without having the smallest idea of what’s going on in your head to be away for so long really stinks. You’ve no idea of how much.

Where the hell are you, Di? Where did you go? Where the hell is my best friend?

Really, where is she?! I haven’t seen her in a long, long while. And, to say the truth, I’m tired. Extremely tired of waiting. Waiting for you to give me a word, an answer. Waiting, at least, for you to have the smallest hint of how much I care, and how much this bothers me.

You know, sometimes I feel like screaming at you, so that you could, at least, try to grasp how tired I am of being the second in line, the one who gives it all, and doesn’t seem to get a single thing in return. I wish I could scream you a WAKE UP!, so that you could understand what you’re doing, and how angry and frustrated I feel.

Go ahead, tell me that you’ve got a busy life [just like you actually did, a few minutes ago]. Ask me again why the hell am I asking you to send an invitation for a meeting through an old-style train. Grasp the differences within my words, and ask me again why am I saying that sort of thing. Yeah, you’ve seen it. You noticed that it was slightly different from my usual, didn’t you? Ask again. Do it, just ask.

And in that very moment, I would only wish you were in front of me so that I could explain it. So that I could put everything in the simplest words, once and for all, with all the almost raw emotions I never allowed you to see. So that you could finally see that, after all, I’m made of flesh and bone, and my blood is still running. Just like my best friend in college said [yes, best friend] “People tend to think I’m too calm the like, but then, they cross their limits and just get shocked when I react.” I subscribe each and every single word he said.

You crossed the limit of the line I drew a long, long time ago. You were always worried about being with those creatures that weren’t even your friends. I have to spend time with them, you used to say, in a guilty expression. On the inside, I only laughed. A lot, actually. You had to spend time with those whores. And what about me?! The one who was always around when you needed anything, anything at all. No, I was a decent, reasonable person and I was completely able to understand how hard your life was.

I never said I had a busy life. Ever. And, probably, most of the times you tried to reach me, I was busy, and deeling with a huge amount of things at the same time. But I would quit whatever I was doing, and give my full attention to you.

See, that’s exactly why you thought it was weird for me not to say the usual it’s all right, darling. You are used to have the passive Amy, the one that’s always waiting for the chance to help, and then, to be left. Forget that, I’m just tired of it.

Ask me, ask me why I said that. And I’ll only say that you were never able to express gratitude for any of my words, attitudes, and the like. I was always worried about you, while you were worried about not letting anyone else down but me.

It’d be a whole new world if you actually read this, wouldn’t? You probably blame me for being fake, wouldn’t you? But try to think the other way around: did you ever give me the space, the opportunity to say it? To tell Hell, I don’t agree! No, you didn’t, right?

So, just don’t get shocked. Sooner or later, I’d lose it. Everyone knows that. I’ve handled it while I could, more than what I could. Yet, now, I couldn’t do it. Not anymore.

Old Nostalgia

I usually tend to feel older than what I actually am. This is just one of those days.

I was just sneaking around some facebook pages [I guess this is the time when I confess that I’ve got a life, and I’m not addicted to facebook. Thanks for asking] and it just hit me, without a decent, proper warning. I was watching some photos of a friend, taken about one or two years ago, while we were still attending to the same school, and the feeling installed in my heart.

I caught myself missing all those insane things we use to do, the times she lost herself eating the cookies I had bake, the times she sincerely hugged me. Gosh, she was quite a girl. Pretty, clever and fearless to say what she wanted to say.

I went to college, and, obviously, we went apart. Yet, I miss that little girl, I really do.

While I was looking at the pictures, I felt this enormous fear of letting life behind – because, sometimes, I feel that’s exactly what I’m doing, day after day. I feel like I’m missing all the things I shouldn’t; loosing my supposed to be friends and the people I talk to; feeling like, in certain moments, I’ve got no one to talk to.

I see everyone else being only normal creatures, going out and keeping in touch with old friends. In the other hand, I look around myself, and it’s like everyone is going away.

I do feel old, nostalgic and the like. Well, some people say they get party blues, and I’m just like them. Furthermore, I get vacation blues. Quite unpleasant, ha?!

To say the truth, I don’t even know where else I should head this post. It seems like my little boat decided to stop in the middle of the ocean, and I decided to quit rowing. So, I’ll just enjoy the view, and try to clean my head. I truly need that. Yet, I’m afraid I’m not able to do it.

Personal Thoughts About A Girl Named Amy

There are things that I, honestly, can’t avoid.

It’s obvious that no one needed me to come here and read an entire post just to grasp something that’s being broadcast, all over the world, about another girl named Amy [and I’m saying another, since I’m not talking about myself]

I absolutely won’t try to build a replica of an episode of biography channel, since I don’t even know much about her story.

All I know – and it is not much – I’ve learnt from her songs and, I must confess, I’m only familiar with a few.

She was the kind of person that actually felt what she sang, and anyone with just a bit of sensibility would understand it. Amy, I think, didn’t write just to make money, but because she needed to write. And she had the sort of song that everyone sings along, even with the radio.

It takes a lot of courage to tell the world what she said on Rehab. Honestly, I’m quite sure I wouldn’t be brave enough, if I was in her place. In the end, she put the entire world singing Rehab, which was, clearly, her story.

I must confess that I enjoyed her songs, and loved the “happy” ones, like Valerie. There was this almost childish smile that caught everyone that heard or sang Valerie, and I got that smile over and over again.

Yet, something really, really different came to me when I heard Back To Black. Not the first time I heard it – since, then, I didn’t get half of her words – but after reading the lyrics. The moment I heard that song knowing exactly what she was saying, I felt a different, particular emotion.

I truly knew what she sang and, again, I must confess that Back To Black was my song, the one that could have been, easily, written by me. Not because I liked it, but because I knew exactly what those words meant – I had been there. She sang my life too, in that song.

And that feeling made me say what I’ve already said: that she needed to write, just the way that every writer needs. We live for writing, we only live with writing, we can’t even think properly without writing [because, without knowing exactly how, this huge lump installs itself in the throat, in the heart, in each and every single part of our being, until we write]

When a person truly feels something, and writes about it, the reader gets the whole thing, the whole feeling. And that happened to me with Back To Black. It only takes a few words, a few notes to give me goose bumps and, quite often, to lead me to tears.

A song! it’s only a song!, would those blessed [or not] insensitive creatures say. Yet, for me, it’s not a song. It’s a story, a statement, just like every other thing that wasn’t written with hands and/or brain, but which every letter that was given to the world came from the heart.

And yes, it was simply a personal review that a supposed Amy made about another Amy. Blame me for not researching at wikipedia, and not googling a single thing I wrote.

The Past and the Future Still Enjoy Haunting the Present

Living in the past. Here is something we’ve all been told not to do. Yet, honestly, what do we do besides that?!

We’re always stuck with what we’ve done, always. What you did yesterday, built the day you’re having now, and what you’re doing now will determine how tomorrow will be. So, there is no visible way that lead us to live anywhere but in the present – at least, for a person like me.

The past is always there, haunting you, waiting for you to blink an eye and get distracted. Then, it’ll just jump above you and throw you at the floor. Or – even worse, I guess – it’ll guide you to the closest window, to watch the sunset, sigh and feel the loneliest creature above Earth.

Someone decided to create something which is – sometimes – mean: memories. Those beings which, sometimes, gently offer a tender smile to your lips but, to make it a fair game, they’ll also provide you serious heartaches. For creatures like me, doctors invented – or simply discovered – the broken heart disease. Therefore, at least, I’ll be “allowed” to say that I’ve got a heartache, so yes, I love it! [I’d like a bit of sarcasm, please!]

A person will think about the past – at least, about what she did yesterday. But the catch is that yesterday is so close, that it seems to have happened one hour ago. Curious thing, the psychological view of time, ha?! And, of course, a person will always think about the future: what will we have for lunch or dinner? What will I tell at the meeting, next week? What will I tell him, tomorrow?

See, our notion of tomorrow is quite similar with the idea we’ve got of yesterday: they both seem too close to be denied, labeled as something different from the present moment, and we just accept them as part of the family, as someone who’s sleeping in our guest room. We nod, we smile, and we resign.

People often say that we must live the present, and consider it as a gift. I’m just deducing that, when we’re thinking about one hour ago, or ten minutes from now, we’re not living the present. We’re just stuck at what we did, and what we’ll do, but haven’t done yet. The curious thing is that I tend to take my thought utopias about the future – even that future that will happen tomorrow – as granted, just as if they were actual truths, or better, memories.

For example, right now, I’m not living the present. I’m just here, writing, settling down my ideas, thinking. In that very moment, I presume, a voice will rise and say But, my dear, thinking is a way of living. And then, I’ll just be quite rude and disagree. No, I don’t think that thinking is a way of living. It’s just a way for a person – in this case, me – to feel better about the whole outlook, and try not to notice everything else, happening around me.

[Sometimes, I wish I could scream, and throw a few people a bucket of truths – so that their eyes opened and they truly could grasp reality – instead of being here, unable to say a thing. I’m truly aware, though, that someday, I’ll just lose my mind, forget everything – what I had; what I could have, but simply don’t; what they think and how they’ll react; and specially, what they’ll think about me, that moment forward – and just say it. Everyone knows that day is coming.]

It’s just like that time I said I’d throw some white ink to this blog. I’ve been willing to do it for a few weeks. A few days after broadcasting I’d re-built the color scheme, I actually did it, and I’m pretty sure it didn’t even took a week.