It's so strange.

Yes, it's so strange, but I didn't wanted to look at my blog. It was like watching a wound somehow. I was distant from it, or maybe distant from myself, because this is one of the few paths that I have to reach myself. Kinda strange, isn't it?. But it's true I guess. Writing and putting the soul in its place. I am not as fluent as I used to be. And I am refering to typing, writing, and putting my thoughts in this language ( I don't know what I do this!!!). Nevermind. This was going to be, again, one of my usual claims of misanthropy. But now, I am not sure about it. I was very difficult to start writing. And it's very difficult to write right now. All about feelings and thoughts. Because those are the centerpieces of my life. Maybe that's my problem. I might need some action. Anyway. I write this, from the loneliness of a library. Full of death people that no one knows if they really existed. People who wrote about any kind of things, for any kind of reason, but, most of them, tried to find a meaning (if there is such thing). From the loneliness of my life, that seems to be more lonely every day. Am I accustomed to that? No. I felt that way before and it hurts just as the first time. That's all for today.