What is there to do but speak to oneself in hopes of another replying? It's curious: you write yet don't know what to write about at the same time: what you write isn't what you were, yet you believe it to be such. How may you be sure? It does not feel like yourself, neither do you remember what drove you to write nor think that very specific thing — it is curious, again.

My thoughts have become clearer: they are more structured and concise. My writing has enhanced considerably, I've also noticed. My interests haven't expanded much other than the occasional drift-off to consider another language and my knowledge seems to be stuck in a very specific state I can't get out from — or is it so? I cannot tell myself. May it be something oneself does not notice?

My curiosity has grown, too. I can't quite say the how or why I am aware of such, but it feels like it has. Though, now that I question myself, is it really that? Am I aware of the fact?

Writing this feels silly. It is essentially a copy of a previous entry, yet that one is genuine: this one feels forced. It shouldn't be. It shouldn't be written. Not even to this very point. But, at the same time, it feels correct: it is an update of my current thoughts, which works well for the category it is written at. On the topic, what do I think about my own entries? I have probably written it somewhere, and I will probably repeat myself, but: the one I was then does not feel like the one from the Now. I am not the one who once wrote the text, but at the same, am. If I attempt to rewrite any of those, I probably would not be able to — my mind would not let me, be it due to limitations or rules set by myself of which I refuse to break.

What can I do currently? Nothing: yet I still continue writing for someone. Who may that be? Myself? Someone other than I? It is more likely for it to be for someone else — if it were for me, this would not exist. No — it would. It would absolutely exist. It is the only reason this is being written at this very moment for this very page for this very site. But, how can it be for me if I do not interact with it? I may also have mentioned it previously, but I only write and forget. This text will not be in my mind tomorrow. I will not remember a single word of what is said in here: I will only have in mind I did.

I feel tired: I want rest, even though I've had plenty. Boredom may be part of it, too. I encourage myself to sleep at this very moment: there is nothing to do, and rewriting this text is not a priority nor a need: the deed of rewriting the farewell message is done, yet I found something to nitpick on. You refuse to sleep just because of this. Just because you feel like expressing yourself better.

I still wonder what others think of me. The answer they would give probably wouldn't satisfy me, and I would most likely ask again in the future, but I can't help but do so. What would another define me as? Would their answer aid me in any way? Would it satisfy my curiosity? As most of these questions go, the answers do not matter. I will not get them now, and I am sure the one that goes after me will not get them either.

I have noticed the fact that I sometimes forget my own thoughts, no matter how recent they may be. I seek to get them again, trying to remember what I thought of at that moment, but fail: it feels as if I am seeking something of me that I myself do not know what it is. It is bittersweet.

There is no order present in these thoughts, and that disgusts me: but, how would I organize something without order? There is no end nor beginning, neither is there a clear category for my thoughts: it is almost a replica to that of my actual thoughts, just that without the abstractness of the concept. A nice thing that does come from the lack of sense of these utterances directed towards nothing is the fact that they do quite nicely as “quick-pullers,” that meaning a random sentence without the necessity of sense or context.

I am unsure if to keep my drafts either present in here or, alternatively, somewhere else. Although, in a way, aren't all of these pages drafts? There is also the fact that I probably wouldn't allow myself to. Incorrecteness is something I deeply despise, and try my best to skip over it, but, oh, is it such a demanding task: my mind screams at me I can, that I have the power to do so, but another part of me screams at me to not, as to make it transparent for that Other I seem to be talking to. Funny enough, that Other is You, although you cannot reply directly.

I have also been considering enforcing myself to use “I” when I talk to myself: I have noticed I sometimes drift to plural. It is silly: I, right here, refer to myself as one, but, when left with myself and myself alone, refer to myself as many. What does that say about me? Why does it feel like I am lying to another?

I think I'll quit it here. I don't have anything to do right now.