I have updated three blogs today, including this.

Only two which are easily accessible to the public eyes who care enough, including this.

My therapist(s) asked me to channel my passion into something constructive and more positive. Everyone has been asking me to journal, to write.

The last time I ever kept a diary was about four years ago.

I told them that I didn’t really want to write anymore. Mainly because of what I fear I must indulge in and face in order to produce what so many considered to be works of art: Memories; detailed memories.

I really wish I don’t have the ability to write. And to remember.

So that I wouldn’t have this capacity for melancholy.

Curse and blessing, curse and blessing, curse and blessing blessing and curesa9420131081yr#$#@EWt4rfds9.

I don’t want to give a fuck shit about wisdom and knowledge. If ignorance is truly bliss.

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But of course, that was my heart speaking. My head says that like V-fucking-day, it’s a phase that would pass with the natural course of life.

I really wish I was and am not so preoccupied with relationships. They tell me that I cannot fight it but to accept and adapt with it for it is who I am and evidently, it is something of importance and consequences.

They tell me I should not be deprived of this need and respect myself more.

@#$#%$#@!@!^%$!$%^I&^%^$^^&*&^%#$@!#$BTHSD&I^%ERAVESRHJ^.

Thank you.

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I think I’m confused with the venues of the blogs I post sometimes. I really didn’t want the Expat to be that personal. I guess life’s like that; every anecdote is interrelated.