Most people think love can only bring pleasure. Don’t try to tell someone who is passionate about reading or writing such as me. It’s been years since my day would not complete if it doesn’t end either with writing a few lines or with reading few pages of an interesting book. Another thing I love to do is observing. Because of my ever-growing novelistic craving, I figure it’s an obligation to learn about human behavior: their venial or mortal sins, their joy, their pain and every other thing that makes life such a complicated and difficult endeavor. There are days, however, it’s hard to satisfy this self-indulging craving for writing or reading. When that happens, passion and contentment turn into gloom and anxiety. I don’t know about you, guys. But that’s the way I feel. I can’t help it.
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