What amount of nights do I have to spend dreaming about fulfillment for me to actually begin trying to reach it? How more stupid do I have to get in order for me to want to turn the corner and learn what my heart and mind are still ignorant about? Perhaps writing in itself will not guide me in the right direction, it will not generate a boyfriend or a best friend either, nor will it tell me which religion do I consider reality, but it is definitely better than just laying in bed. Better than just laying in bed and dreaming about peace of mind; as if being a couch potato is the way to reach one’s goals, as if wishes expressed to birthday candles actually came true, as if accomplishing one’s New Years resolutions relied solely on jotting them down. And as if, as if I would actually even reach peace of mind. By the way, I don’t believe I would want a never-ending, always-present peace of mind (I do need peace of mind right now, though) what I need is the constant struggle to reach it. I need the introspection, the analysis of possibilities, the action (rather than the planning), and all these other attitudes that will allow me to live alive.