late night ramble
so here we are yet again. i really dont know what im doing, but i have nothing better to do and sleep doesnt come anymore.
im looking around this empty room and feeling like nothing i do with change anything. i mean, i dont feel depressed or sad, but more clear than ever before. theres just something about being up after everyones gone to sleep that give you an eire yet content feeling thats hard to explain.
strange memonires keep floating back to me. i hate it. i dont like being reminded. and yet i bring it on myself when i look for something to be mad at even thoough it has no relevange at this point in time. i feel like im back a few summers ago, in kansas, where the only thing i really know was insomnia, and would look out the window until the sun came up and peaked through the trees, then giving me enough comfort to sleep. night owl i guess, or i just never felt safe there. not safe enough to sleep in the dark. strange, but thats how it went. never sleeping on an actual bed, but more falling alseep on the floor around 6am, or sitting in front of the window for hours on end listening to whatever happened to tickles my fancey. im not mad about it, in fact the memory is kind of comforting in a strange way. sitting in front of that window got me sent home early. i dont really know why i wanted to go home so bad at the time, but i think it had something to do with a longing to be anywhere but there, and i was willing and ready to leave. my eyes would get heavy as they would pear out the window and my breath would fog up the cold window, and for some reason i felt alive in the deadest way imaginable. it was the days when you didnt care if you stopped breathing because you had nothing to live for anyway. not happy, not sad, just there. but wait, there was an emotion there. hatred. maybe thats what kept me up all those nights, and what kept my eyes stareing blankly out the window, longing for the desert. yes, i remember now. i hated it there. it was a house, but not a home. there were beds, but no comfort. there was a dad, but no father. no, he had left long ago. the air carried hints of secrets, making every breath suffacting to the lungs. the dead silence, only broken by words that you didnt know if they would be gtood or bad, living in consant fear of a mood change. no, this was not living, but a half life. living is not indoors hoping the house would burn down. living was being with people you knew, those who you felt comfortable around, yet there were none there. they were hundreds of miles away, and i was left wondering what i had done to deserve such a hell. and left wondering if anyone even really cared that i was missing. i mean, people can say easily that they were thinking of you and noticed your abscence, but who really means that? not many do. i learned that quwick enough. im really not sure why im writing this, but its in the forefront of my mind, i had nothing better to do than to spill the memoires on here. take aay fomr it what you will, take a piece of me if you will. im an open book, all you have to do is read me.
im looking around this empty room and feeling like nothing i do with change anything. i mean, i dont feel depressed or sad, but more clear than ever before. theres just something about being up after everyones gone to sleep that give you an eire yet content feeling thats hard to explain.
strange memonires keep floating back to me. i hate it. i dont like being reminded. and yet i bring it on myself when i look for something to be mad at even thoough it has no relevange at this point in time. i feel like im back a few summers ago, in kansas, where the only thing i really know was insomnia, and would look out the window until the sun came up and peaked through the trees, then giving me enough comfort to sleep. night owl i guess, or i just never felt safe there. not safe enough to sleep in the dark. strange, but thats how it went. never sleeping on an actual bed, but more falling alseep on the floor around 6am, or sitting in front of the window for hours on end listening to whatever happened to tickles my fancey. im not mad about it, in fact the memory is kind of comforting in a strange way. sitting in front of that window got me sent home early. i dont really know why i wanted to go home so bad at the time, but i think it had something to do with a longing to be anywhere but there, and i was willing and ready to leave. my eyes would get heavy as they would pear out the window and my breath would fog up the cold window, and for some reason i felt alive in the deadest way imaginable. it was the days when you didnt care if you stopped breathing because you had nothing to live for anyway. not happy, not sad, just there. but wait, there was an emotion there. hatred. maybe thats what kept me up all those nights, and what kept my eyes stareing blankly out the window, longing for the desert. yes, i remember now. i hated it there. it was a house, but not a home. there were beds, but no comfort. there was a dad, but no father. no, he had left long ago. the air carried hints of secrets, making every breath suffacting to the lungs. the dead silence, only broken by words that you didnt know if they would be gtood or bad, living in consant fear of a mood change. no, this was not living, but a half life. living is not indoors hoping the house would burn down. living was being with people you knew, those who you felt comfortable around, yet there were none there. they were hundreds of miles away, and i was left wondering what i had done to deserve such a hell. and left wondering if anyone even really cared that i was missing. i mean, people can say easily that they were thinking of you and noticed your abscence, but who really means that? not many do. i learned that quwick enough. im really not sure why im writing this, but its in the forefront of my mind, i had nothing better to do than to spill the memoires on here. take aay fomr it what you will, take a piece of me if you will. im an open book, all you have to do is read me.