I've got it all unfigured out
Fuck the idea that posting anything with feeling or aspects of the self is emo--that's just stupid.
I'm 20 years old, and most times I feel more like 30, and sometimes it's more like 12. I'm tired of working, but I can't quit. I'm tired of living off of nothing, but I wouldn't want it any other way. I'm simply tired, but I can't and don't and won't sleep.
I am far beyond socially aware, and yet I act on pure and basic motivations. I understand people more than I should, and yet I don't understand them at all. I hate the way in which so many things operate, and yet I oblige the same constraints. I find myself breaking my own rules and acting in the ways I criticize, and I don't mind. People confuse the hell out of me, yet I know why they do what they do, yet I can't call anyone out on it, because, well, that's not my place. I should call myself out more.
I want to leave and stay, go and come, get away for awhile leave forever and bring it all with me, too. I want love, but it's impossible for way too many reasons. And what is love anyway.
I hesitate while typing this, but I will be an author, you wait and see. There are so many things I can't do, that I sometimes lose track and or hope in the things I can do. I'm good at a lot but great at so little.
I have people that I love, I call them friends. I have people that I want to call friends. The rest are just conversational fodder. If I don't like you, you probably won't know--I try to be nice to all, because what's the point of being a dick. But if I like you, you know it. If not, well, I don't hate you either.
I don't get mad, and if I do, I usually keep it down to a small roar. I hope I don't kill someone someday. No, that won't happen.
Life is short, believe me, I know. I don't want to waste a day, but I've already wasted and will waste so many.
I think school, for the most part, is stupid. But I'm going back anyway. Why? Who knows. It's not for a desk job, I swear it.
I can't imagine where I'll be in 6 months, much less 6 years.
I feel like I don't fit in, and yet I do.
I'm not really talking to any of you, just me. The keyboard just feels nice.
Things are way too relative to ever be figured out...I'll accept no arguments on that.
I've got so much to say, but not here. Goodnight.
I'm 20 years old, and most times I feel more like 30, and sometimes it's more like 12. I'm tired of working, but I can't quit. I'm tired of living off of nothing, but I wouldn't want it any other way. I'm simply tired, but I can't and don't and won't sleep.
I am far beyond socially aware, and yet I act on pure and basic motivations. I understand people more than I should, and yet I don't understand them at all. I hate the way in which so many things operate, and yet I oblige the same constraints. I find myself breaking my own rules and acting in the ways I criticize, and I don't mind. People confuse the hell out of me, yet I know why they do what they do, yet I can't call anyone out on it, because, well, that's not my place. I should call myself out more.
I want to leave and stay, go and come, get away for awhile leave forever and bring it all with me, too. I want love, but it's impossible for way too many reasons. And what is love anyway.
I hesitate while typing this, but I will be an author, you wait and see. There are so many things I can't do, that I sometimes lose track and or hope in the things I can do. I'm good at a lot but great at so little.
I have people that I love, I call them friends. I have people that I want to call friends. The rest are just conversational fodder. If I don't like you, you probably won't know--I try to be nice to all, because what's the point of being a dick. But if I like you, you know it. If not, well, I don't hate you either.
I don't get mad, and if I do, I usually keep it down to a small roar. I hope I don't kill someone someday. No, that won't happen.
Life is short, believe me, I know. I don't want to waste a day, but I've already wasted and will waste so many.
I think school, for the most part, is stupid. But I'm going back anyway. Why? Who knows. It's not for a desk job, I swear it.
I can't imagine where I'll be in 6 months, much less 6 years.
I feel like I don't fit in, and yet I do.
I'm not really talking to any of you, just me. The keyboard just feels nice.
Things are way too relative to ever be figured out...I'll accept no arguments on that.
I've got so much to say, but not here. Goodnight.