So.

I have this sudden urge to write.

I was thinking of creating a blog, one that’s not public, and pouring out on that. I’ve been contemplating it subliminally for a while now, just never get to it or put much voluntary thought into it.

No matter how open and public I go with voicing my thoughts and everything, a part of me always insists – that it’s somewhat fake.

And that I can’t help it.

But I try. Sometimes I can’t even tell myself. It’s not easy when all your thoughts are jumbled up in such a manner, that you can’t really tell what you want or are feeling.

Being bipolar isn’t easy.

Like being bothered severely by something, and not being able to figure out what it is. Specially when you’re so good at figuring things out, and figuring out what other people want, need, or feel. It’s ironic that it’d be so hard to do it for yourself.

Poetic justice, maybe. It all falls on paper so much more beautifully. When there’s some ironic misfortune that entails it all.

It’s what you’d want to read, at the end of the day. Not just some happy bullshit.

Like how I get surprised feelings from people when I tell them I’m happy or love life. It confuses them.

Which is kind of sad, if you think about it. People tell me I’ve become predictable.

Yet it confuses some people when I’m actually happy for a change.

Then it confuses me, when I’m not happy anymore, out of nowhere, for no reason at all.

Life is confusing that way.

End of transmission.