I am not in love. I do not wish to be.
Sometimes Envy beckons, but I know more of time wasted and hopes squished. Here I am, as lazy as I can. I haven't written anything good (or presentable) since that very first post in February. If I've lost all will to write, may I still term myself a poet? Or would that be a lie?
Nothing is writable, nothing at all. Being jobless (by choice) for four months makes up the most boring period of my life. Thinking about five hours of commuting in a day worries me more. I am doing nothing but wasting away, not even writing, not even wanting to write. This should be worse than wishing to die every hour of every day. It's like... there is no voice in me anymore. I do not desire to say anything to anyone. Not even to myself. Loneliness subsides as I swim deeper into numbness.
Been watching some illegal streaming of American TV shows: Jane by Design, Bunheads, The New Normal, The Carrie Diaries (not exactly a fan), American Horror Story (only the second season), and Suburgatory. It's fun for a while, and then I realize nothing of it matters.
In the past three days, I also create new sets on Polyvore. I'm trying to purchase combat boots online but too lazy to contact the seller. They might not look best on me without those ten centimeters of heels. So, I simply patched outfits using combat boots on amelanniza.polyvore.com. These are two examples: