So here are more rambling thoughts about not much at all, I wish I could write more about the things that I love or things that are more common, but I find it very hard to put those thoughts down in writing on a weekly basis, plus I'm out of ideas for now.

*Brews coffee awkwardly*

1. Brewing Coffee

I'd be lying if I told l you I wasn't drawn to the things that make my life hard, and I'd be lying if I said that I'm in a good mood when you see a smile on my face. I might be good at fooling you but that is only because I'm honest to you when the time to be honest comes. I can't be dabbled by the fantasies of being contempt as easily as you can, the foolishness of my ideas that grasps your attention but falls short of becoming more than a mere tangent can't possibly express the intentions that even though I do not hide, are camouflaged by things that I can't seem to comprehend and keep me on the verge of cliques that I see, without feeling a need of belonging.

So in the mornings I wake up, roll to my window and take in the light, even though overcasts days call in the rain, I wished for those instances to never end, and I wish for the rain to catch me outside, so that in a glimpse of dumb inspiration I can catch a line to put down on paper--fancy words with no meaning. So, mad and confused, angry and annoyed, I sat here for hours and nothing has come out, only the caffeine headaches I've gotten.

Somewhere down some road, she keeps walking, and I'm here just brewing coffee to stay awake. Above all I must finish this, but every time I come to the end of a page, I stare slightly frightened and stop my smile just shy of big--you see, it's when my eyes catch the blank one that follows that I feel the most inspired--I can't let my emotions get the best of me. Worn out boots and a damped coat wait by the door, they wait for the page to be filled, or for me to get bored.

I keep rolling down the halls of redundant sayings and pages curled from the rain and the sun. There's the old man, sitting on a park bench having a cigarette and reading through his yellow glasses, he looks at ease--just like every other Saturday morning--A professor he once was but now he just walks slowly and sits calmly, I mean, there's not much left for him to do. On the other hand, I'm not so lucky, as I'm one cup short of not sleeping tonight, still nowhere near done and hell, I hope to never be. She keeps walking and by now I'm just drinking cold coffee, sadly I think I know wich one will get tired first, leaving the other one alone to put an end to the page.