there are 125 horses in our town.
Oh this house. This house does not feel like a home. There are too many disagreements. Lesson to be learned: you cannot live with 2 girls who are sisters. They're family. You're not. They can do anything. You cannot.
It is always being outnumbered, whether you're in the right or otherwise.
Also, I'm so confused by old friends and new, that I can't even write. I put words on the screen and delete them. How many times? I lose count. Twelveteen times? fourifty times?
The words just won't stay. They slide. They fade. They are intangible. Everything I have ever thought or will feel is intangible.
intangible.
That words sticks here. It seems comfortable. I liked typing it.
I think so much and feel so little. I complain like an angsty middle schooler. I sit with a guitar and strum melancholia. I sit with a bass and finger melancholia. I sit by myself and mumble melancholia.
Oh the intangible! Oh inverted world!
I don't want to talk to people who sit in coffee shops, name dropping and reading the Unbearable Lightness of Being. I don't want to have old friends have conversations with me because of the history, and not because of the actual content.
My pockets are more full than these exchanges.
I wish I could just write this and be done. By I'm censoring myself. It's too public here. What else can I expect from a livejournal? Even friends only is too public. And private seems like masturbation and contrary to the spirit of this format. There are too many eyes and too many ears. The children are awake and crying. The flags unfurl and unclench, but not me.