"~~~~~~~~~~~"
This is something that I randomly wrote today...on a whim, with about an hour or so or even just 30 minutes to spare on it's creation. I guess I'm just wondering if anyone can relate to what I'm saying, if what I'm saying makes coherent sense...(below)...because I'm extremely skeptical about that.
We will always have our notebooks, our red rimmed, metal spiraled, flower covered notebooks with song lyrics scribbled along the margins and pages filled with musings of daily upsets and weekly philosophies. If anything, I’d hope that those would be the ideas to resonate within our minds - thoughts that once stemmed from innocence and passion, all at once the inherent ideals of our inner expectations, long before they were tarnished by torn hands reaching for pure vessels.
In my experience, I expressed what I could, what my mind and ink and gravel allowed me to. The days long past from my innocence, were when I wrote of my long lost loves, providing me with proof that I wasn’t always cold inside. I wrote of my love for music, the love that I now mostly shirk and ignore besides the dark depth of night; that’s when I pretended that I am something more, something better than just me. Even though my current days continue to grow in superficiality I can look back and at least know that I pretended otherwise.
What I will do is laugh with my friends instead of contemplating change in this world. To enjoy my youth would be an understatement and to write truth I would need to muster up enough courage. And I’m not sure that I can do that. I’m not sure that I can produce enough courage and patience to tell a story worth reading about, to teach, to portray a life that is somehow not as empty as my own.
But I know that even as I say this I cannot internally accept that my life is empty, that those red rimmed notebooks mean nothing. Because in the base of my groundwork I am able to scrounge up a stream, however small, of optimism. I am built this way and I cannot release myself from it. No matter how I might’ve tried as a misguided child I could not sustain myself on the waves of despair and depression for too long. Those waves rose and fell deeply but after a while the sea became calm again and I simply became what I was destined to be. And woe those stories, the stories I could have told that could have resonated within the walls of dark hallways and steep bedrooms, smoke filled nights and voiceless bottles, those stories are to be tucked away for someone else to tell.
There is little that is assured. There is very little that I can even…understand. And, there are no conclusions. There is simply always change, always the changing of truth and perspective…although, there must always be the preservation of self.
We will always have our notebooks, our red rimmed, metal spiraled, flower covered notebooks with song lyrics scribbled along the margins and pages filled with musings of daily upsets and weekly philosophies. If anything, I’d hope that those would be the ideas to resonate within our minds - thoughts that once stemmed from innocence and passion, all at once the inherent ideals of our inner expectations, long before they were tarnished by torn hands reaching for pure vessels.
In my experience, I expressed what I could, what my mind and ink and gravel allowed me to. The days long past from my innocence, were when I wrote of my long lost loves, providing me with proof that I wasn’t always cold inside. I wrote of my love for music, the love that I now mostly shirk and ignore besides the dark depth of night; that’s when I pretended that I am something more, something better than just me. Even though my current days continue to grow in superficiality I can look back and at least know that I pretended otherwise.
What I will do is laugh with my friends instead of contemplating change in this world. To enjoy my youth would be an understatement and to write truth I would need to muster up enough courage. And I’m not sure that I can do that. I’m not sure that I can produce enough courage and patience to tell a story worth reading about, to teach, to portray a life that is somehow not as empty as my own.
But I know that even as I say this I cannot internally accept that my life is empty, that those red rimmed notebooks mean nothing. Because in the base of my groundwork I am able to scrounge up a stream, however small, of optimism. I am built this way and I cannot release myself from it. No matter how I might’ve tried as a misguided child I could not sustain myself on the waves of despair and depression for too long. Those waves rose and fell deeply but after a while the sea became calm again and I simply became what I was destined to be. And woe those stories, the stories I could have told that could have resonated within the walls of dark hallways and steep bedrooms, smoke filled nights and voiceless bottles, those stories are to be tucked away for someone else to tell.
There is little that is assured. There is very little that I can even…understand. And, there are no conclusions. There is simply always change, always the changing of truth and perspective…although, there must always be the preservation of self.