I think i've got a sickness, a terminally ill disease. A disease that will probably eat into my own self and one day just die of it. Yuck, eating own flesh is disgusting.
I like working. Work means a lot to me, don't mind spending weekends or after working hours doing work stuff. Its just a comfort space i guess. But nomatter how much i rant, complain and curse over it, i can't deny my love for my work.

Keeping busy, organising events and meeting people is my passion. I realised. It has not only made me who i am and where i am, it made me what i am. I see people take jobs as a have to survive, working for the sake of putting bread on the table, paying bills, a thorough sake of responsibility. Counting down lets just use my age, i've got 30 more years to go before i retire. 30 more years of work, thats my youth, my growing, my maturity, my life and my all.

Of course, i would want a family and kids. How cute if i can 'poot' out little maymays. Make the world i little bit worrying with my little ones. But work still need to come in line with it. I admire people who can juggle both well. It if definately not an easy task especially mothers. Well, of course i won't say we will all marry rich, no need to work, poot children out until the cow comes home.

Or, what if i die tomorrow, will i have any regrets? not performing well enough, not giving myself enough, not loving enough... and the lists goes on. Or, spent too much time at work? I think and still thinking... if i die, i do not regret what i've prioritised at this moment. but but but... i also don't know but what.

Its here there and everywhere. A not focused, concentrated writing is a headache, and this is what i'm leaving you with.

Puzzle me dear, puzzle me.