I wondered why I stopped writing blogs.
I enjoyed what I wrote, that was my past 18 years-old me (and uhh, I am now 21) but I think it is cute. Somehow, I want to run to my old me and hug them tight wishing if only I can turn back the time and spend my years doing my best at everything. There are a lot of regrets and thick-faced, I am still doing things I probably would regret— yes, being lazy af. I am still not used to adulting things, I am still not used to face that I didnt experienced things I supposed to experience because of incompetency and pandemic barrier. I AM ENVIOUS. I wanted to learn, I wanted to experience and sail along with the same experiences as people, but how?— if I skipped lines and that is who I am today, I feel incompetent, alone, failure, incomplete.
I hope someday I could fine the learnings or the experience that can help me find the real me, or the happiness, experience and contentment that I am longing for. I wanted everything in my imagination to happen. I want to stand in front of others to tell them the story, life, challenges I faced that helped me to become successful. I wanted to inspire, teach people but how?
I do really hope life will help me.










