A sleep-deprived being who doesn’t know how to comb her hair. Just another typical cat, making records of her troubles, stating her disillusionment about the society, giving out moronic thoughts over the most insignificant things and some of a hundred everyday menaces. And yes, cats do these.
These are the proofs of my crime, the truth behind my every lie.
(^._.^)
Claire. Had seen no more than nineteen summers.
"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" - Phil. 4:13
P.S. II
I tend to make "P.S." and I don't know why. I just do.
P.S. III
See?
P.S. IV
And um, meow?- Whiskers
Tonight, I could write down the saddest words, as if words can embody the sadness I feel. As if I could put into words the emotions I feel. There would always be lacks, exaggerations, amplification on certain details, and underrating of some points. There would be justifications and alterations. There would be a whole story to be told in order to express the sadness hidden in the depths of one’s soul.
Why? Because saying simply “I am sad” is not enough to say I am really sad. Crazy, isn’t it? What’s with the word sad that people can’t comprehend its meaning? Do we always have to prove everything? To explain everything? To expound every little detail in order for people to recognize it?
Sadly, we have to. Like this. I could’ve just said that I am sad, yet, I come up with this.
And sadly enough again, there will be people who will ask you, are you sad?
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