What about me?

Where's my story? Everybody is getting there story at least a direction. Even my characters are getting something out of there life. My story has a writers block.

It's a ruthless path we walk on. We are the one who sees the beauty but can't define it. We can't find to enjoy our selfs. We can't appreciate it like others do. And I do hope people appreciate stuff that they feel, touch, smell, taste and see. I write what I don't have. I want to feel, touch, smell, taste and see what I don't have. Does that make me materialistic? Or just an innocent adventurer?

I lied. I can define on thing. Pain. But I interpreted differently. It's like finding a sound of a band. That thing that makes you unique. Pain has been my definition.

Lately I have been doing stuff that helped others not my self. I find to do that one of the essayist doings of my life. Nothing in return but a kind warm smile on there faces. I have been watching these smiles and there attentions. And have been inspired by there efforts to do great. The truth is pain and suffering are inevitable. Living with that can be easy for some one who has nothing but that. But for those who are not that familiar with it can be... different.

I am good at stuff that supposed to be hard, and bad at the stuff that supposed to be easy. And I take things easy. Should I take stuff in a harder prospective, to make things easier?

Michael