A word to me.

What’s the one word for I, me and myself? I answered, ordinary. Perhaps, average? That’s decent too.

I read. Every time I touch the book spine, it’s easier to keep me calm. I’m like being transported into another world.
People presumes I could be a writer as I read lots. But I enjoys the character and the flow under genuine penmanship. How they structure the words into sentence, sentence into paragraph, and eventually into story find me in fascination. I do not own the determination or enough vocabulary to tell a least-50-page story. Everything is bouncing faster in imaginative mind. Not even catching up the writing speed.

I travel. People, more than one, suggest me to pen on it. But experiences holds up in my heart. I even think that my verbal expression is so limited. Few words will do, more than enough to leave the rest to yourself. Seems like not a way to write a good journal for sharing.

I think. I enjoy creative arts, innovative thoughts and any catchy extraordinary stuffs. But I’m not as artistic as an illustrator. I cannot draw, cut or sketch. I wear headset most of times but not sing well nor play musical instrument. It’s just the feeling I want to fall and live a solitary life for a moment.

I listen to song but not the lyric. I watch movie but do not remember who the actor is. I read book but have no idea in author biography. It’s a pure feeling, pure enjoyment. So I know something but not everything. What’s the point of this post? Nothing. Just feel wanna typing out loud. Read away.

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