There’s some weird reason why ideas and thoughts and templates and patterns I like only come to my mind in English. Maybe the language itself makes those creations of mine sound smart, witty and reasonable, I feel as if I become a different person, a person I like, someone I will or would like to become one day.

See, my problem with writing is that I don’t have a story to tell. One of my secret life aspirations is to become a writer, not only a writer, but someone who is good at their job. I love the idea of creating alternate universes, mingling different concepts, using different stylistic devices to make my point… My fingertips burn up but then I remember that everything worth reading has already been written. At that moment I flick over the things I’ve already written and suddenly the excitement is gone. I mean, why bother?

Still, however, when I come across an article or a blog entry pursuing some creative ambitions, I tell myself that I could do it better.

Well, sometimes I really really think that I could. And maybe my real problem is that I never really sit down and write.