My writings here tend to be birthed from pain and agony. I haven’t had that for a while. I’ve been occupied with happiness recently, and I have no complaints. But I am prone to getting complacent and accustomed to comfort, which might be dangerous.

I still think from time to time, but thoughts don’t kick my brain membrane ferociously anymore, and I don’t feel obliged to get them out of my brain onto the white paper. There are also fewer perfect moments which compel me to write down my thoughts. I return to the dorm more tired and hasty than usual, for mornings come too early if I don’t get enough sleep.

Still, I am fond of the version of me that writes stuff. Sometimes they are not horribly written.