Oh God, why am I such a mess?
Isn't it funny how you think that everything is getting better? That a vacation in the sun will do nothing but warm your soul? That writing is a form of expression, but what good is that if the word is nothing as it should, not half as eloquent as you once wanted, not read half as much by eyes other than yourself? What is the purpose of a rant, if not to confess feelings that hurt and strike you when you are not looking? Why do we question things?
I felt like everything was wonderful. Fantastic. Peachy. I was 100% amazing, sluffing class and going to FL. Keeping warm and on my toes. Loving. Caring. Having a heart. (Is it really still there? Beating?) To think the sanity has washed over me, christened me in a way it never has before, and I look to the sun and smile, feeling warmth on my face.
And then I'm hit by a snowstorm of epic proportions. A car spirals in a snow bank and collides with the dividing wall of concrete, and my first instinct is to pray for that person because although it wasn't too bad, he's not in a bit of a rough spot poor dear and jeez, can I relate? Because my own body/mind/soul/whatever I can be classified as, has spiraled as well for another wonderful journay on the train of forever collisions.
Because life is never easy, but some people make it look so. I'm jealous. I admit to it; green with envy at those who can control a life that isn't, or maybe they are?, spiraling out of control. I reach for a hand that doesn't quite exist. I reach for the hands of close friends, but who am I kidding? The people I'm reaching to are the roots of my problems. I've condensed the group of so called friends so well that it consists of two people and a possible third or fourth.
What is more crazy than wishing for a broken ankle, a proper hearing aid beside a cupped hand to ear, a proper heart condition (oh were it to beat when it should!) for an ounce of pity. But when I recieve pity! I do not want pity. I am a hypocrite to myself; probably the worse subspecies in a hyperactive group of hypocrites.
My but I sound good.
I've done nothing but hurt over dilemas of others and I finally have one of my own. One of a controvesial type of conversation. One of epic proportions that deserves a front page on gossip and rag mags in an effort to show my pure idiocy. The fact that I may speak from a soap box and practice what I preach as I step down, yet my mind and imagination betray the words of my mouth.
I'm sick.
I can't focus on my Linguistics homework. I don't understand it. My head hurts from thinking, trying to understand, crying, and most of all, pondering. I've done nothing but wonder about my predicament from the moment I awoke. I did a lot of thinking yesterday night as well, but no thoughts are solid. I contradict myself. For every pro there is a con and vise versa.
There is a chill in this room--perhaps the window was opened indeed. Impossible.
I'm almost crying again. I really can't decide what to do here. I felt like writing a rant about the issues at hand. About my conflicted heart and my confusion, but I knew I couldn't trust myself to not dish out unhappiness or cruelty in a the name of people I supposidly love. I could not bare for words of unkindness to float to those from unpursed lips. I could not bear to type the monologue in my secret OU journal for fear it may be found. And I could not bear not to type something, anything, in an attempt to feel better. And where better to type than a journal I spent so much on? I don't even wish to friendlock it. For who would then actually have access to it anyway? Myself?
Look at me, fingers poised to type a blame. Blame the book--"you've always fallen into characters in the past. Look at the way you took on HP and the lives of those within the pages. Look at the years of your life, namingly frosh and soph year that you can't hardly even remember due to your fragmented state of mind."
Yet none were the wiser.
I'm ready to fess up. But I'd never let a word loose from my lips. I'll keep those battered and bruised sentences, those overanalyzed pieces of my life sacred and let them form ghosts upon ghosts to haunt me. (And now others.)
That chill! I'd better layer clothing. I'd better go to sleep. I'd better wait for mother who at least can sooth some pain. Unless she tells me I'm crazy. Or maybe that's the best? I wish she were home. I wish she will be in a good mood when she gets home. I wish I can talk to her, alone, and get some help. I need to have a good cry. I need help- has anyone had LIN 180 before? I don't understand it. I have an assignment due tuesday. At least ENG 215 is a quick and easy process. I'll print those tomorrow. Not to worry. Not to worry. Another of Nixon's classes, another day at the bookstore, another day battling myself. A kiss is a kiss, and it's lovely when it doesn't make you hurt.
Eep Eep. I make no sense to you. Or perhaps you have given up reading this. I would've too.
And an end here. I don't want to end it, for I hate endings and I think I like the way I sound right now. And I think I'm singing a song about a princess. (It's in lysse_tehwriter) and I want to win it alone. (But I want one of them there too.)
Oh see! Egads!
I felt like everything was wonderful. Fantastic. Peachy. I was 100% amazing, sluffing class and going to FL. Keeping warm and on my toes. Loving. Caring. Having a heart. (Is it really still there? Beating?) To think the sanity has washed over me, christened me in a way it never has before, and I look to the sun and smile, feeling warmth on my face.
And then I'm hit by a snowstorm of epic proportions. A car spirals in a snow bank and collides with the dividing wall of concrete, and my first instinct is to pray for that person because although it wasn't too bad, he's not in a bit of a rough spot poor dear and jeez, can I relate? Because my own body/mind/soul/whatever I can be classified as, has spiraled as well for another wonderful journay on the train of forever collisions.
Because life is never easy, but some people make it look so. I'm jealous. I admit to it; green with envy at those who can control a life that isn't, or maybe they are?, spiraling out of control. I reach for a hand that doesn't quite exist. I reach for the hands of close friends, but who am I kidding? The people I'm reaching to are the roots of my problems. I've condensed the group of so called friends so well that it consists of two people and a possible third or fourth.
What is more crazy than wishing for a broken ankle, a proper hearing aid beside a cupped hand to ear, a proper heart condition (oh were it to beat when it should!) for an ounce of pity. But when I recieve pity! I do not want pity. I am a hypocrite to myself; probably the worse subspecies in a hyperactive group of hypocrites.
My but I sound good.
I've done nothing but hurt over dilemas of others and I finally have one of my own. One of a controvesial type of conversation. One of epic proportions that deserves a front page on gossip and rag mags in an effort to show my pure idiocy. The fact that I may speak from a soap box and practice what I preach as I step down, yet my mind and imagination betray the words of my mouth.
I'm sick.
I can't focus on my Linguistics homework. I don't understand it. My head hurts from thinking, trying to understand, crying, and most of all, pondering. I've done nothing but wonder about my predicament from the moment I awoke. I did a lot of thinking yesterday night as well, but no thoughts are solid. I contradict myself. For every pro there is a con and vise versa.
There is a chill in this room--perhaps the window was opened indeed. Impossible.
I'm almost crying again. I really can't decide what to do here. I felt like writing a rant about the issues at hand. About my conflicted heart and my confusion, but I knew I couldn't trust myself to not dish out unhappiness or cruelty in a the name of people I supposidly love. I could not bare for words of unkindness to float to those from unpursed lips. I could not bear to type the monologue in my secret OU journal for fear it may be found. And I could not bear not to type something, anything, in an attempt to feel better. And where better to type than a journal I spent so much on? I don't even wish to friendlock it. For who would then actually have access to it anyway? Myself?
Look at me, fingers poised to type a blame. Blame the book--"you've always fallen into characters in the past. Look at the way you took on HP and the lives of those within the pages. Look at the years of your life, namingly frosh and soph year that you can't hardly even remember due to your fragmented state of mind."
Yet none were the wiser.
I'm ready to fess up. But I'd never let a word loose from my lips. I'll keep those battered and bruised sentences, those overanalyzed pieces of my life sacred and let them form ghosts upon ghosts to haunt me. (And now others.)
That chill! I'd better layer clothing. I'd better go to sleep. I'd better wait for mother who at least can sooth some pain. Unless she tells me I'm crazy. Or maybe that's the best? I wish she were home. I wish she will be in a good mood when she gets home. I wish I can talk to her, alone, and get some help. I need to have a good cry. I need help- has anyone had LIN 180 before? I don't understand it. I have an assignment due tuesday. At least ENG 215 is a quick and easy process. I'll print those tomorrow. Not to worry. Not to worry. Another of Nixon's classes, another day at the bookstore, another day battling myself. A kiss is a kiss, and it's lovely when it doesn't make you hurt.
Eep Eep. I make no sense to you. Or perhaps you have given up reading this. I would've too.
And an end here. I don't want to end it, for I hate endings and I think I like the way I sound right now. And I think I'm singing a song about a princess. (It's in lysse_tehwriter) and I want to win it alone. (But I want one of them there too.)
Oh see! Egads!