Dear diary, for the longest time I haven’t written. I’m not talking about those shit-ass superficial paragraphs I patronizingly include after my pictures, those mindless writing neither inspire nor provokes thought; they certainly do not count.

The truth is – I have been happy. And when I am happy, I hardly think. I evolve into this full-fledged bimbo who just wants to look pretty and mould my life back to perfection (since it was broken once, twice). No one likes a sad girl, but everyone loves to read about sad stories. It makes them feel a wee bit better about their lives. Also, happiness is never quite as real as sadness. It’s not as relatable. I, in particular, have a thing for dark, heartbreaking stories. Once in a while, I like to feel dejected, numb and stoic. I do think it’s a cyclical phase. (Hope I’m not alone in this.)

So anyway, yes, I have been happy. I can’t write well when I am happy. Well, I guess there’s always a trade off. Bear with me while my happiness lasts.



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