Okay, so I don’t really know why I started calling myself that. The Philophobic Logophile. I suppose you can say that I love letters and words. I always read and write. My three jobs (writing, translating, and teaching) require a lot of reading and writing.

I guess I’m still quite a cynic / skeptic when it comes to…love / romance. (Which one is which? See, I’m confusing myself again.)

The weird thing is, I can’t even define how I feel about this. Am I sad? Am I happy? Do I feel so content now that I (seem to) lack doing something more? Should I be worried?

Don’t worry, I’m through asking myself whether I’m ‘normal’ or else. What is ‘normal’, anyway?

This is why I still keep myself busy with work and writing nowadays. I’m glad, because I have no time pestering other people regarding their personal lives. I don’t want them to do the same to mine.

I guess I’ve changed. For the better, I hope.




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