I was not prepared to see European size coffee cups, though I must admit that it suits my stomach much better. So, I indulged a petite cup of Belgian coffee, felt rejuvenated, and went on observing others around me. Sheri talked about the importance of politics, and I realized that maybe politics isn’t so bad, that maybe one should concern oneself with the problems and catastrophes of, not only the third world, but this world as well. It was a pleasant evening; a cool, chilly wind swept across the tables and made me nostalgic for the sun. Okay, so I also want to wear my summer dresses, but I really do miss the damn sun.
I never suffered from insomnia, but here I am never tired enough to sleep the nights. Instead, I write, out of pleasure and self-indulgence more than anything else. I also think happy things like a child who’s been given candy, or even better, a dream toy. It is the silly thinking that gets me through the nights. I also just realized that in my previous post I clearly declared that I would not think, well, the hell with that, I am a writer, what else am I supposed to live on? There is no anti-drug for the addiction of my kind.
I don’t like formalities all that much, so I am rambling because I can. I am not 15 anymore; I’ve lost that sweet voice of innocence with which I used to write; I’ve lost that touch of honest amateurism that made everyone happy. I am honest now and sure I am still learning, but I also can’t be all too poetic about freedom and the lack thereof (Is that even grammatically correct?) I am 19. The world is pretty damn real, no joke. I see it different now. I see it as a contradiction, a pun on words, a sarcastic joke. And I know I can’t make everyone happy. Therefore, I’ll get right to it: I am a writer who is living reality by writing it and if my words don’t ring a bell, then so be it…
Until a later time when I actually have significant tales to recount,
The little sleepless traveler