Publisher's Synopsis
Ever since I was a child, I had an obsession with putting a pen on paper. Whether it was drawing, writing or simply squabbling senseless things; as long as I was doing something...anything, my attention would be buried in that activity. As I grew up I developed a strong passion for words. It felt weird to me that I could be so creative when writing something, but would turn out to be incredibly clueless in saying anything to anyone. No one really knew how I felt. It raised a sense of curiosity on others while others treated me like a total stranger that I was, and were not even a least bit interested in getting to know me more- 'just another human minding his business without bothering anyone' is the common expression that I would pick up from their faces as they dismissed my existence from the first glance. I hate how the sun just simply rises with a hellish temperature, with its rays passing through the window in my room, blinding my sight while my eyes are still closed from a deep and yet, uncomfortable sleep. If I had put curtains on this would not have happened. I curse at my lack of doing the most basic tasks that only benefit me. But this has been going on for quite some time now. It has nothing to do with laziness, a medical condition or any type of disorder. I just find comfortability in dismissing what I deem to be trivial matters of no importance. My fault was I never used any criteria to measure the importance of anything. I just did not care.
