Fruitful

I end up screaming into my pillow in some days.

I was telling roomie Isaac last night how long it has been since my last blog. I think about it and in the back of my mind say, "Nah, nobody reads you anymore." Changes. Hehe. But old osang was asking for posts, and after I told her how maniacally depressed I was the other day, told me to just start writing again. Thanks for that.

I am not easily cured, however. For nights I haven't been getting any sleep, although my sleeping pills (reading) have been taken in double doses. At points I blame my newfound liking of online curiousities, but I've been offline by 9PM for all the other nights. I saw, however, a gaping hole. I'm afraid.

I'm afraid that I'm not being fruitful, even as a human being. My stagnations have caused so many dillusions, so many insecurities that seem to cloud my mind. Am I worth a person that I am now? I keep asking. I seem have been inside the same routine, the same paraphrases. I look at myself in the mirror and ask? What am I doing with my life?

I feel afraid that I'll just stand one day in the whole compounds of this world, and stare, and serve no other purpose, but to stand and stare.