(no subject)
A disarray of books, magazines, sweaters, photographs and paintbrushes litter the room. Everything somehow interesting in it's own way. The walls display artwork and posters of all sorts. Everything in the room tells you a story of some place and point in time, and I can't keep myself from wishing I would have been lucky enough to be a part of some of those memories. Thankfully I am in some of the photographs, and I have my fair share of memories there, but alot of them are from another place. Another time. And I love it all. And everything about it. I finally see now what beauty has been before my very eyes for so long. I'm only scared that it's too little too late, because every word i say now is considered to be an empty one, because of all my previous actions and false commitments.
I guess words start off with a certain value. When I first met her, my words had a certain value. With time I could have either raised the value of those words. Instead my words are worth less now than it costs me to have them in my head. They mean so little.
The window sill houses a collection of stuffed animals and plush monsters. Lying on the cold marble floor, looking at all the random objects in the room I realize how much all the odd, randomness means to me. The loveseat-type chair is unusable because of the enormous pile of clothes placed on top of it, most of it obscure and bought at vintage clothing stores and rarely worn. All of it great, in some way I can't describe.
Lying on the bed that instantly befriends my back I look out the second story window, past all the stuffed animals and I can't help but notice that the wilderness of homes and concrete and green grass and people walking their dogs down Coral Gables streets seems so much more alive. The entire world seems so much more alive through that window.
And when I look at the clouds through that window, it always seems like they're attracted to the sun.I'm convinced that when I see the clouds move so fastly through that window, they have this magnetic attraction towards the sun. And it reminds me of what she says, "Because the sun does not know that it is a star." And it seems like that sums it all up. It somehow exlains why she doesn't call anymore. And why it suddenly seems like she doesn't care anymore. And why it's immediately clear that I've killed myself with changes a bit too late. I'm making changes now that I realize I should have made a while ago. But what can I say, I was in my stupid phase. I didn't realize what had. Or what I wanted.
I care now. More than I ever have. And I finally feel it all. Caring is like a fever, or a disease. And I love the feeling of it. I've given up alot recently, to become a better person, and finally, I'm giving something. I'm putting in effort. Hoping it would produce results. Something I never did before. And it's making all the difference. I feel like a real person. I feel real.
I guess words start off with a certain value. When I first met her, my words had a certain value. With time I could have either raised the value of those words. Instead my words are worth less now than it costs me to have them in my head. They mean so little.
The window sill houses a collection of stuffed animals and plush monsters. Lying on the cold marble floor, looking at all the random objects in the room I realize how much all the odd, randomness means to me. The loveseat-type chair is unusable because of the enormous pile of clothes placed on top of it, most of it obscure and bought at vintage clothing stores and rarely worn. All of it great, in some way I can't describe.
Lying on the bed that instantly befriends my back I look out the second story window, past all the stuffed animals and I can't help but notice that the wilderness of homes and concrete and green grass and people walking their dogs down Coral Gables streets seems so much more alive. The entire world seems so much more alive through that window.
And when I look at the clouds through that window, it always seems like they're attracted to the sun.I'm convinced that when I see the clouds move so fastly through that window, they have this magnetic attraction towards the sun. And it reminds me of what she says, "Because the sun does not know that it is a star." And it seems like that sums it all up. It somehow exlains why she doesn't call anymore. And why it suddenly seems like she doesn't care anymore. And why it's immediately clear that I've killed myself with changes a bit too late. I'm making changes now that I realize I should have made a while ago. But what can I say, I was in my stupid phase. I didn't realize what had. Or what I wanted.
I care now. More than I ever have. And I finally feel it all. Caring is like a fever, or a disease. And I love the feeling of it. I've given up alot recently, to become a better person, and finally, I'm giving something. I'm putting in effort. Hoping it would produce results. Something I never did before. And it's making all the difference. I feel like a real person. I feel real.