The same things, over and over
I'll never make it as a songwriter, the words don't mean enough. Inspiration fails me time again, with day to day emptiness sucking away any source of art that surfaces. I looked at myself again, through someone else's eyes. It's been a while since I've done that, and I really don't like what I saw. I've stopped thinking before I speak- oh, I still think, but I think logically, what argument, what phrase will get my point across. I want people to care about me. I want friends who talk with me, and hurt me for the sake of my own good. I need something to work for, to care about. I want time to stop hating me, and circumstance, and chance. Which is better - living day to day, or making plans that you know are fated to fail? When you don't know what to do, should you act anyways, or wait? If you act, isn't it foolish, and if you wait, isn't it inhuman? I feel like a jagged mountainside, with the remains of a landslide- people look at me and see that there's a shadow of beauty, but they'd prefer to look and be elsewhere. Depression? Ha - it's a word used too much to mean something much less. I've been there, and this isn't it- this is merely frustrated, wandering thought. I need rest, from life, and yet if I sleep, I feel my life is wasted. Is it not wasted already? If one person can make a difference in someone's life, does that justify their existence? Nobody reads this, anyways . . . I wirte for me, anyways. Because no-one else is here.