(no subject)
Maybe this is a declaration of self, or perhaps just a confession, but you should know by now that I'm a sucker for concepts. I will eat avocados just because they sound nice, even though I don't like them in the slightest. I will insist on falling asleep while watching the history channel even though I'm too tired to even see the television properly. I am happier when my life looks simple and pretty from the outside, looking in. I like writing because it's all about concepts and details, and I live for these things. I live for turquoise, and tuesdays, and radio waves, and flowers, and Guatemala. Yes, Guatemala.
Sometimes in February and March, things are okay. Sometimes, at this time of year it all blends together and I forget to remember what that stranger said or who looked like they were going to cry. I forget about things like creating with my own two hands, and living in technicolor. And I'm not unhappy but I can't quite figure out happy either, because everything is too shallow and bland, and things are gray instead of grey (and even grey isn't pretty enough anymore).
This doesn't make sense unless you're a sucker for concepts too. This doesn't make sense unless you're waiting for something; unless you write for the sake of writing and cry for the sake of crying. This doesn't make sense unless you care.
I'm worn out from forcing all these words.
Sometimes in February and March, things are okay. Sometimes, at this time of year it all blends together and I forget to remember what that stranger said or who looked like they were going to cry. I forget about things like creating with my own two hands, and living in technicolor. And I'm not unhappy but I can't quite figure out happy either, because everything is too shallow and bland, and things are gray instead of grey (and even grey isn't pretty enough anymore).
This doesn't make sense unless you're a sucker for concepts too. This doesn't make sense unless you're waiting for something; unless you write for the sake of writing and cry for the sake of crying. This doesn't make sense unless you care.
I'm worn out from forcing all these words.