Returning home, back to where I belong. To where I grew up and to where most of my sentimental belongings are kept. To look at another point of view would be to describe it as, a whole lot of junk and nonsense that are mostly not mine but in my space. Flipping through pages and reading what I have wrote years ago really strucked me quite a bit. How did I come out with so much things to write about just about 4 over years ago. and now, everything I write is not of that level or impact which I get from reading it 4 years later. Writing about the environment, the world, people, and how much I wanted things to change or remained unchanged. Writing about how my heart got broken several times and how I decided not to pursue that sadistic route and give up without being a sore loser.
Look here, I have nothing to type. I have been having troubles trying to express myself with words these days. I am just so afraid of saying the wrong thing, not that i might hurt someone, but I might expose myself too much and end up leaving nothing and losing everything all overrrrr again.
If I knew better, I wouldn't have bothered to clean up and go through things so thoroughly. Many things should not be read.
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