Each time I have written drought open the Word to try to get something mildly interesting, but I always get the impression after about three lines I do not think many people want to read the existential problems of a fool, or young or a man of 18 years. A guy who does not yet know for sure where he goes to micro, that studied little or nothing, who likes a girl and does not dare to gamble, they say they have friends who see little or nothing, having lunch alone in the courtyard on Friday , arriving late for classes or all the hair is pulled to see a problem with Enter. I've counted seven lines (in Word ) and I decided to stick with it, to see what happens. I remember the last time I wrote out what, in my opinion (and that of several) was the best essay I've placed here: that of Deborah and I contemplate a half hour. This time it was all of a sudden, it was real inspiration was a thing of wanting to get home quickly, grab the notebook and type. Those are the elements needed to achieve a rich writing: inspiration, like writing. But lately that my special corner on the web, in addition to being overwhelmed by the simplicity of Fotolog (which, despite what may seem banal allows me to show another side of me), has not had food since there has been none of the above. No inspiration. The things that have happened not to want to have a mad desire to write and express to the world, and after all are the same as ever, and as someone once told me that, you can find here, or in any Blog of a person my age, or even less. On the urge to write, I have not failed to tell the truth, but as I said in the first paragraph, the concept is uncertainty of unknown origin sick of not knowing what (or who) write.
I guess I needed attention, because it also has become a pathological thing to review about 10 times a day Fotolog when I get a new picture for new posts ; similar thing with this, when I write something new. I do not know if it fills me know that I read or look at my pictures, or know me, or leave me messages, I really do not know. I've always pretended and at times tried to reflect an image of self, but I think many times I also pass the bill, and so when there are dips deep enough, to think the right and necessary, lie down and close my eyes and wait pass. And it happens, luckily, if I do not know what would happen to me.
I worry people think about me, who I care so much that I should care. Of how such type talks, how she dresses, who is coupled with, and so on. I trust not too worried as the rest, not socialize like some others do. I was also sorry to see my side and do away with people who believed they would be closer. Confuses me sometimes that my life is linked greatly to a computer, a group of nicknames givers phrases. Interesting phrases, but virtual. Could be real but I miss my mind my being antisocial.
At this stage of writing I can apparently more depressive kind in the world but it does not convince me. I still hope the providential event that will bring me out of lethargy. I keep waiting. Perhaps too static, but continue waiting.
Photo: "Night." Torre Coraceros, Viña del Mar. 7 February 2007, by Diego Cordero.
