Jam 2.22 disini. Di dapur opa yang tertinggal jaman mungkin 30-40 tahun yang lalu. Mencoba menulis sesuatu tentang makanan, sambil mencoba nge-blok makian ke diri sendiri. Oh no, bendungan retak, airnya keluar, dan... dan meledak!
Who the hell do I think I am? I want to be a writer? That's the craziest, out of the ordinary statement/idea/imagination ever. How in the world will anyone ever want to pay me for sentences that jumps, words too stoic, shallow breadth of emotion? Some people say you're the worse critique to yourself, I say I am being realistic.
You know, the problem is not that I don't trust myself (despite the flood of insecure questions i've written so perfectly on the previous paragraph). The problem is that I am impatient. I cannot sit down and focus on one thing, and pushed on when the mood isn't setting. I'm an undisciplined little girl who's been marked a 24 year old with much talent, but zero ambition.
Ambition: like an arrogant and pompous man with a moustache. Indeed, that man I lack within me!
The truth is, this sleeping pill I took is far stronger than I thought it would be, and my whole world is kinda slowing down bit after bit. Maybe I should go to bed and return to this mindless, time-consuming mockery the day after. Or maybe I should just publish it?
This doesn't feel like a christmas eve. I missed my grandparents, my real grandparents. Ah, great, now I'm crying. Good night.