there is not always a subject...
I look at this world and at my life, somehow the two are suppose to add up to create medium somewhere... something that makes sense, adds up, and can eventually be divided. Divided among what, I do not know. Part of me feels equivalent where I am at, while the other half of me doesn't what to conceive. These pieces of my life seem to be scatter all over this place; this comfy town they call "home"... but it is not, and will never be. I can never consider this my home and I really do not know where I do consider "home". Perhaps I am one of those flowers that blow in the wind and somehow their petals are scattered all over the mountainside. To me that mountainside is this world, and the more I know, the more I live, the more I travel, the more I want to find "home".
Once I find this place call home, I would like to find some true friends... sure I have friends but do I ever see them? Do I ever talk to them? Truth is, I have more acquaintances than I do friends, and more enemies than I do acquaintances. I guess I just don't like people. But in a species where such corruption exists and such backstabbing, who would like people?
Once I find this place call home, I would like to find some true friends... sure I have friends but do I ever see them? Do I ever talk to them? Truth is, I have more acquaintances than I do friends, and more enemies than I do acquaintances. I guess I just don't like people. But in a species where such corruption exists and such backstabbing, who would like people?