journal-entry-ish kinda book.

it was a cold night so i wore two layers of sweater. i took out an inky black pen from my pencil case and a newly bought journal-entry-ish kinda book with its soft shiny black covers with a yellow-coloured speech bubble at the front from my bag and i dashed outside where the cold was really biting my skin despite the two layers of sweater i was wearing. i picked a comfortable spot where there was enough light for me to write and at the same time a place where i could lean my back. 

i opened the new and empty pages of the journal-entry-ish kinda book and began writing my thoughts down, not even stopping for one bit. i lashed out my emotions on those blank pages and slowly, page by page was filled with my emotional rage, upsets and rants, represented with really ugly distorted handwriting, written in black, inky pen. bit by bit my mind and thoughts ease as what i had in my brain slowly leaked out onto the pages. everything i felt, everything i wanted to say out-loud but couldn't, everything i had stored in my heart and in my brain; everything was there, in that journal-entry-ish kinda book.

i wrote down what i felt especially, my thoughts, my disappointments, my anger, my frustrations all inside the empty pages of the journal-entry-ish kinda book for the next few weeks. i wrote with the same inky black pen and wrote in the terribly ugly distorted handwriting that i am well-known for. i leaned against a wall, shut my mind from the world and i would write and write until my mind said stop. so i would stop, close the book, get up, and go on with my life. i did this for the next few weeks or so.

then i stopped. i stopped. the journal-entry-ish kinda book is now lying somewhere, collecting dust. i just stopped. maybe i was tired writing the same shit all over again and again. it did relief my emotional burdens a bit but then it kinda made me feel more, i don't know-out of place? out of my touch? something about writing in that journal-entry-ish kinda book in a negative manner made me stop. i became lazy. the inky black pen was running out of ink anyways, so i stopped. i stopped completely.

i didn't have time for negativity. everything around me was moving so fast that writing inside the journal-entry-ish kinda book became a chore. it wasn't supposed to end up as a chore. it was supposed to be facilitative, helpful. it didn't turn out that way. after a while, i got tired. i stopped writing inside the journal-entry-ish kinda book

i stopped. 

p.s: and i should continue stopping.