my family came home late last night, and they are still cozying in their beds at this time of the day.

my room has developed into some sort of mess, the unwashed coffee mugs, wires tangled into one another, papers strewned all over the place, clothes from the last weekends,
but im not bothered enough to put them away.

i realise i do most of the things i do at home pretty much alone.
not that i minded, but it makes me wonder what they think about that.

im capable of making mistakes, but I have feelings too
but they are not romantic, not romantic at all.

people rarely love you enough to write you songs, or do something a little out of the world just to make you feel special. but they love you enough to let you mess up their minds and their lives, and they never blame you for it.

im afraid, or rather, very afraid,
that you would stop loving me when i stop loving myself.

happiness has been fleeting in and out of my life lately.
my quest is still failing.
and soon, i'll be seventeen.