Write!
...said my firts T one hundred years ago. I always was the obedient one. So I did. Pages and pages. Books and books. Things got swarmed, my room covered in books, papers, even shoeboxes with words on it. Not enough space for other stuff food. It evolved my handwriting much. Carved my literary expression skillz. I could write a proper book now if I wanted, all kinds of shit gets published. But I won't. Besides, not much left to say.
Except visual evidence and spacial lackness, it brought nothing. Still being stupid enough to regret burning all that useless paper taking MY space, although part of me strongly wishes to see it all dissapear into smoke. Fire! Siempre lacked fire of some kind(internal?) and often imagining what must fires on the Sun be like...
Completely unproductive thoughts and time captured... Never had the illusion of anyone reading it. Said, solely for therapeutical purposes. Doing something, writing. Expressing? what? this vast emptiness I feel? No, that would leave just blank pages. My sick imaginations, anxious fears, day&night dreams, hopes sparingly, and tons and tons of unreturned love. Love going to thin air. Yeah, I'm very rich.
* noticed how potatoes can look like eggs sometimes?