I had a long, tiring day yesterday. I wonder why I keep doing long days to myself. All they are is filled with emptiness. I cried like a baby last night… because… I have no real dreams. There’s just… space with no air… void filled with emptiness…

It feels lonely, to be all alone with your dreams. I want so many things, but that doesn’t appear to mean anything, because nobody dreams my dreams with me. I dream alone. Most people seem to think I have achieved my full potential, and the few others are seen as dreamers.

I want to publish my kind of already half-written autobiographical novel. Nobody seems to want me to do that. Of course, I’m not talking about my amazing readers. Nobody shows interest in my writing, I mean, they never ask how my writing is doing, what kind of columns I write. There isn’t anybody I can tell I have another new column, and how happy it makes me, so I can see the happy sensation it might give them. Nobody supports me, makes life boring and fatiguing.

Last night, I got texted something all of my life I have been waiting for. Too little, too late, I guess… because what I felt deep inside explicitly was nothing at all. Spooks me… since when did I become incapable of feeling what a normal human being would?

There was a fancy situation yesterday. I was somewhere waiting for someone, and in the mean time I decided to secretly observe guys’ reactions on a girl like myself. My black dyed hair that’s over a meter length was loosely hanging, I had a black mini-mini-skirt and my jack was tight and black. Result: really, the cutest boys watch me. There was this one guy who walk-passed me, then he turned around and walked backwards while we were maintaining eye-contact.