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Some years ago back in our Creative Writing class, my professor asked everyone, “If you are to write a book, what are you going to write?” My response was simple, “I am to write my life,” and his response was, “Who will read your life? What will make your life interesting?” and I can’t say a word as a response, since back then, I don’t even love myself, so who will love then to learn my life? Someone writes, “People writes because no one listen.” And this seems to me almost always true, and even if we are to write and some read it till the end, it is still a fact that no one really cares. My former blog has a lot of posts and I kept it secret for many years because I am sure that no one gives a damn about my feelings and life. I am writing simply just to express myself and I am done with that and I have no more reason other than that. With all I have written lately, in blog and in chat, I guess, my life is still an uninteresting story and only the piece of paper is an ear, which is always willing to learn my stories through my pen, and for me a paper is my loveliest companion, like a book who doesn’t know to change its words. Likely I could only stop writing and consider it as my silence, because maybe right then, I will have a real ear to listen to my nonsense thoughts, and try to understand and appreciate my life which is only painted with blue, black and gray.

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