Itchy fingers,
The smell of books.
I have strong urges.
Of writing books.
Or it would always happens,
whenever I open my laptop,
I'd have the tendencies to watch Barbie.

Rainy days arrived at the back of the flying birds.
They're probably bewildered; why do I love rain so much?
Such storms, dark clouds, why do I find peace in them?
Perhaps a person like me loves desolation;
for I have found peacefullness in the state of feeling emotions so deeply.

But I love rain. More than anything in the world.
Despite the annoyance it results me in after having to step on the wet streets
and soaking the draping of my skirt, I still love when the raindrop tracing down
along my skin, leaving trails of it, wetting my long hair.
I thought this is the most perfect time that should be completed with a cup of hot
chocolate, writing or reading and an on repeat River Flows In You.
My imaginations start to become louder as they cry out to be written.
Whenever I do anything, I couldn't get myself done doing it without letting my mind wander off to a world that only I know. But I have to write them so badly. I want them to be real. I want them to be imprinted on a stack of papers. So I know that they do exist outside the realm of my tangled mind.

Despite for all, I need to go. I have to run a few errands and let myself go distracted and stop thinking about what stories could I possibily finish writing.

If I don't forget, I will surely please myself with a good writing soon.