You come back where you have grown up, known every tiny little corner of the area. The place you call home or called home. Sadly, the only thing consistent was me and me still hanging on to this idea of home and of knowing the place. Oh time i fucking hate you, you destroy everything and apparently you heal everything ( which i am yet to encounter).
Here I am sitting writing this junk. Shouldn't i rather be out with my boys ? Making Pakistan proud? On my car ? Hanging out from its window ? That seems like fun everyone does it, should i conform to societal 'norms' be a sheep like most of us. Sadly i think i am a sheep i became one when i logged into blogspot.com, created one of these. I prided myself for being a rebel not doing what others did. It always irked it still does. I hate myself as i type more, but i love writing things like these, i always did i always will. I guess the hating part is a core process of doing anything creative.
I've never done anything creative in which i actually liked the end product. I've hated most of my finished pieces, it's the unfinished ones that i pride about. They give me more room to work with, there is still work to be done on them. Once completed I'll go over them once and after that i just plain hate them.
I'm sick of myself now. I quit (lets hope permanently) With words from someone who i grew up listening.
"For he still smiles, and hes still strong
Nothings changed, but the surrounding bullshit
That has grown"__ Eddie Vedder
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