I complain a lot. I feel that something has to be always happening in my life that will keep it interesting. I hate being bored. I love other people’s company. I secretly like the attention that they give me but I am also shy. I can be loud. I can be timid. I love drama. I love sleeping in. Dancing is my life. Constantly going out and socializing keeps me sane. I love to travel, I love talking to my friends even though they don’t have anything to say to me. I would bug them and will not get a reply for hours, even days. I love too much. I have so much love to give that it sometimes hurt. Why can’t I get the same love that I give? Why am I even trying so hard? I care too much. I get hurt a lot.
I love to write. At some point though, I hated writing. I hated the fact that I can’t write about anything. My muse left me years ago and she decided not to come back. Now I am struggling. I feel like I have all these things to say but I can’t convey it. Like right now, I don’t even know what the whole point of this post is. Maybe because it has been awhile since I wrote something. Writing shouldn’t be a chore. It should come from the heart, from my experiences. I want to share my feelings like how I see gold and white dress and how puzzling it is that people actually thought it was a different color. How I miss my fiancé so much. I won’t see him until next week because I am here in California for work. I want to write how happy I am with my relationship right now, how I love him so much. How I never thought that I’ll ever find a guy who is just so awesome and he loves me. The real me. Even though I am everything that I wrote here. I love him and I feel so lucky.
I am bored.
I am all of the above.
I am a work in progress.
I found the love of my life.
I do care too much.
I still don’t know what this post is for.
I just want to write.