For some reason, I suddenly want to revamp everything. Seriously. My room, my SP, my blog, my writings.... heck, even my wardrobe. That doesn't mean I'm actually going to do it, but that's not the point. The people who know me know that I try to figure out and write about things I do, things I see and things I feel. But this one... This one I can't figure out.

Sure, my room has practically been begging for a paint job for ages. And, yeah, I've considered making a new design for my blog. And, of course, we all need a new set of clothes every now and then. But it just strikes me as weird that I suddenly want a major overhaul of everything at this very moment. Maybe it's just all of that piled up together. I dunno.

And it's not the only thing I can't figure out right now.

For some other reason (or maybe it's the same), I want to record everything.

Suddenly I'm looking through old photos, old journals, and old notes and letters -- some of which don't even make sense. Suddenly, I'm browsing through every kind of paper in National Bookstore, thinking which one would work best for a scrapbook. Sure, I've always wanted to make a scrapbook, but I don't know what triggered this. Maybe it's the time I've spent with my friends during the break. Or maybe it's the reunions I've had with my high school classmates. Maybe my recent visits to my high school and college campuses struck a sentimental cord.

Suddenly I want to write and write about everything and anything, from the most profound to the most trivial, until there is nothing more to write, just so everybody who care about me will know what's going on in my pretty little head. Sure, I've always loved writing, but...

This is just plain weird.

But the funny thing about all this is: even though I want to do all that, I'm not actually doing them.

"But what you wanna do takes time and effort," I debate with myself.

"Ah, yes, you're quite right," I agree. "But I can always write, can't I?"

"Yes, yes, you can."

So I take my trusty journal -- the one that's made of paper, which I go back to every now and then -- and I write. But before I actually make a point (or before I finish driving my point), my train of thought suddenly stops. Or the "dramatic flair", as Sara called it, in my writing suddenly dwindles down to nothing. And then I suddenly find my finished work bare, unexpressive, and basically pointless. And then my purpose of writing at all will be defeated.

It's almost funny that, sometimes, I take things so seriously, and sometimes I look at things as if nothing really matters, and thus we must laugh about everything. It's at these times that I see myself to be so inconsistent at some things to the point that I'm being consistent at it.

And now... I don't know how to end this blog entry.

Ha.

There you have it. A first-hand experience to what I'm trying to point out. But I guess it's just fitting: I've proven the my point that I can't draw a conclusion, so there shall be no conclusion.

So...yeah. Yet another entry of random thoughts, snowflakes floating in the air. Another log of my quiet mumblings, possibly drowned out in amidst the business of life and the million voices calling us to do what we're supposed to do.

Well, then. Until tomorrow's mumblings...

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