I could spend my whole life prying loose the secrets of the insane.
the language in the dimmer rooms seems to represent its light source well. how soft they speak and seem to be at peace with the movement of the music and the madness that's pulling me into this--and the shades of the lamps are woven red. the light, it stains and consecrates anointing all forgotten forms that swirl and smoke and haunt this place. the girls in gowns all nurse the dark, pulling it near to their swelling breasts and watch as it seeps to their hearts and beats within their virgin chests.--and here i know seduction breeds from wanton hearts that would seduce and grows and spreads its vines and leaves, embracing those who migh thave moved--.
Having so much free-time cannot be healthy for an over-thinking-type-of-person like myself. I miss all the good times, and hang outs. Like driving around in friends' cars, blarring good music we could all sing along to. Windows down, chins up. Happy times. I only half-miss the times I spent a couple summers ago daydreaming and feeling warm. Meeting new people, and seeing new faces. Playing (good) games, and all the innocent fun. It's different now, and I'm still stuck in the past like usual. But I'm not complaining. I'd rather be living in the past then knowing what these people truly think of me. Maybe it's safest to think everyone likes you, and everybody is truly happy. I don't want to hurt feelings here, but I'll be completely publically honest for once in my life--I just don't feel it anymore. High-school friendships has gotten passe for me, and I'm ready (have been ready) for more.
(thestarswecouldreachwerejuststarfishonthebeach.)
Today I went back to every scar on my legs and thought of the time they each happened. The first time I attempted a two-wheel bike. The time I held hands with my best friend and ran only to fall and scrap my knee. The first time I shaved and thought the harder you push down, the better your results. It's just funny to look back on things and see if you can remember how they happened. I only remembered a few.
My birthday is in seven days. Whether I go to Chicago for school or not will be found out in seven days, too. I'm anxious, I'm nervous, and I'm even doubtful. Not about my acceptance, but about my passion. I don't know if being a photographer is going to be satisfying when I'm 30 and not making enough money. Maybe I really do want to be an forensic scientist! Or a forensic photographer. Or an FBI spy/agent. My parents negativity and comments are making my doubt the one thing I enjoy doing most. It's sad.
If I die young, I want "Seasons in the Sun" by Black Box Recorder to be played softly at my funeral.
My neighbor asked me what I wanted for my birthday, and I told her I wanted cift certificates from the Post Office (yes, the exist).
P.S.--Will someone rent me a P.O. box at the Walled Lake Postal Office?