(no subject)
This overwhelming feeling.
I just want to let it all out. But I don’t know what to do first. I have tremendous urge to scream and burst into tears simultaneously.
But I do neither. I hold it in.
19 years have passed me by. Soon to be 20.
And I still don’t feel comfortable in my own skin. I feel as though I’m constantly wondering. A vagabond in my own right.
I should go on the lamb. It would make such better stories.
To keep myself together, I clutch this little journal I once kept. Though the pages seemed to have been forgotten, I still carry it with me. In case I have this sudden urge to write something of such dire importance that it needs to be addressed.
But I never carry a fucking pen.
Yet still, I’m clutching onto this notebook, because it seems to be all that’s keeping me.
I used to go on drives to clear my head. I would travel around the area, just seeing what there is to see. Usually after about an hour or so I would head back, with things set into a bit more perspective than before.
Now it seems as though I could drive forever. And I’ve often considered it. See where life takes me. Disappear.
Go on the lamb.
But I always end up back here. To my home. At least the place I call home. The place I feel more at home at than any other. Its always here. But not always so welcoming.
Home is what you make it.
Life is what you make of it.
Josh is made of ___________________.(insert noun here)
I just want to let it all out. But I don’t know what to do first. I have tremendous urge to scream and burst into tears simultaneously.
But I do neither. I hold it in.
19 years have passed me by. Soon to be 20.
And I still don’t feel comfortable in my own skin. I feel as though I’m constantly wondering. A vagabond in my own right.
I should go on the lamb. It would make such better stories.
To keep myself together, I clutch this little journal I once kept. Though the pages seemed to have been forgotten, I still carry it with me. In case I have this sudden urge to write something of such dire importance that it needs to be addressed.
But I never carry a fucking pen.
Yet still, I’m clutching onto this notebook, because it seems to be all that’s keeping me.
I used to go on drives to clear my head. I would travel around the area, just seeing what there is to see. Usually after about an hour or so I would head back, with things set into a bit more perspective than before.
Now it seems as though I could drive forever. And I’ve often considered it. See where life takes me. Disappear.
Go on the lamb.
But I always end up back here. To my home. At least the place I call home. The place I feel more at home at than any other. Its always here. But not always so welcoming.
Home is what you make it.
Life is what you make of it.
Josh is made of ___________________.(insert noun here)