That red book i got from my sister back in 2012 left unwritten...
That green leather journal I had in 2013 and refilled with lots of papers in 2014 still nothing much written but left behind with lots of blank space...
This year, that black book i carry everywhere i go... still new. Even i desperately wanted to write.
What's wrong with i-love-to-write... that dream of having my chapters of life bind in a thick book. A dream of being ambitious and cheerful.. a dream of having a thoughtful fantasy dream..
where have all that dreams gone?
All i remember...
I talk to myself and i don't bother of writing it on paper... because i need no trace of hatred and fears... yes, that's what i've been thinking to write all this while... so i rather having my own book with lots of blank pages... so there's a chance for me to write in future.
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