Locked myself in my room the past few days, and
the pages of my journal are filled once again.

I feel satisfied and contented
(despite being screwed for midterms for I have barely studied)

-

So I got a little distracted:

"to know nothing about yourself is to live,
to know yourself badly is to think"

~ Fernando Pessoa, the book of disquiet

Going by that, I (or perhaps, we) live to think. There's just that immense satisfaction of being in a state of 'disequilibrium' (living), then discovering more about yourself from that experience (thinking).

I have finally purchased another copy of the book of disquiet, after filling in the wrong address half a year ago. I actually really want to read it. (Somehow the lure of other books strengthens (by a lot) when you have textbooks or compulsory material in front of you)