i want to write a book. yep. a book. i don't know what about, or what genre, or anything. but i wanna write one. something. some kind of tangible collection of the love i have for things. or ideas. or an idea. or even hatred. i don't know. just something that people can read and, if i be so brazen as to say this, like. maybe even relate to a little. i know in reality i'd be lucky to even finish more than a chapter if i ever do muster up the courage to attempt to write a book. because really, the idea that anyone would want to read what i have to write is so vain that i could vomit. but then, i do have this diary. and i do have me as my background. so obviously, i'm pretty vain. it just might work. hmm. but i am 18. and i do know next to nothing about anything relevant. yeah. i know that diet coke isn't really calorie-free. and i know the difference between exoteric and esoteric. but none of that matters. you can't write anything decent about menial crap like that. but that's me. i get stuck on the menial stuff. it astounds me. the pieces of literature that we hold as shining examples, read and reread and those that have yet to be written, are what they are because they tell us something about us that we don't know. they can expose some part of human nature that we may or may not be aware of. but what do i know? nothing. i know what synesthesia is. i know the fundamentals of sufism. i know a thing or two about the biological bases of human nature, about the proper conjugation of spanish verbs, and how to make fruit ripen faster. but i don't know much about life. maybe someday. i am only 18. i will probably never write a book, because i am full of well-intentioned ideas that never reach fruition.