crying soup cans instead of tears.
i cried tonight for the first time in months. and not for the reasons i should have been crying. not for that boy, not for the loss, not for anything relevant. because of a movie though. it was once a book i read. and it made me remember why i read it. I had to read it because i was an adamant 4th grader who thought that my imagination was better than that of authors who wrote books. i had to read that book and write a report on it. i remember saying in that report how much better my imagination was because i would never let anyone die. i still think my imagination is better. so much better. but i cried because i remembered after that book all i did was read. because my teachers looked down on me for never wanting to read. for never wanting to do english. writing papers and all that nonsense. so all through fifth grade i read books, dove into an imaginary world of fantasy and my imagination. and cause of that i had no friends. maybe one. but if i saw her today she wouldn't know me. everytime i move i set down that woven pattern of my life and start a new one. even recently i didnt move. but i've weaving two lives. the one i am and the one i want people to see. i hate what i've made for myself. but its not like a book. if something goes wrong you can erase it adn start over, or make a new ending. its not like that at all. no one will ever know the first boy i kissed how many people i've slept with this summer alone. no one will know those things because i've rewritten them. i don't really want to believe in their answers. i like rewritting my life.it gives me a sense of completion in what i do. but as much as i can pretend that i;m something i'm not the only person it takes a toll on is me. other people see me for what i want. but hwen i come home and see myself i think what the hell is wrong with me. i'm falling back into who i was. weaving that pattern of misguidedness and sorrow. as depressing as that sounds, it's true. it really is almost like a good book. that without it. i wouldn't know what to do. a forever written book that has no bad parts and sad endings. only the parts i want it to have. but without it i would completely fall apart. one day i guess my binding will dry out get old from no one reading my story. from no one really knowing what all i've crossed out. and that's ok. because everyone has their story. some dont want to tell theirs. i am a someone who wants to be heard. but can't find the words to put it down on paper. i want someone to listen to what i have to say, and not take me for a pity story. cause i'm not. i want someone to see past what i've been through. not really see it as a hardship but as an experience that i was fortunate enough to have. without it, it's only something that people read about. i've been there. that doesn't mean that i am supposed to have people feel sorry for me. i don't feel sorry for you for living the lavash life. don't feel sorry for me. i really want someone to knock down my walls and see me for who i am, not for who i want them to see me as. i had my mind set on one person. but i realised i gave them way too much credit to see me as that person. afterall, you can rewrite the story you read, but not those of others. the printed word is the final one afterall, if only in the book of life. sometimes i wish there could be a version 2.0 maybe then things might turn out the way i write them. not the way other people see them. sometimes even. i wish i meant it when i said i love you. cause then maybe i'd have something to cry about. but how can you mean something that you don't know what it is. yeah. i don't know what love is. but who out there really does? i love my cat, my hedgehog, my sewing machine. only because i understand what they feel (save for the machine) and i can fix their stories for them. sometimes i wish it were that easy. call every emotion one word. regardless of what you feel. label it all on some big factory line. each can of emotion is slapped in a row with a campbells soup label of different emotions, but it's all the same thing. if life weren't so hard i wouldn't have to imagine what i want. and i'd have it. instead i have a lifetime's supply of unwritten pages and emotional soup cans. maybe life isn't so bad. in the grand scheme of it all. but then again maybe pretty much always means no...