(no subject)
They say that talk is cheap, ninety-eight percent of time. The other two percent rides of sincerity and promise. The two cents worth of life. I can write good angst, I can pretend I've rubbed elbows with despair and hatred and the worst fears that human kind can think of. That's just it, however, because it's amazing, how well I've gotten at pretending. Sixteen years, and I've had my life handed to me. Sixteen years, and I've experienced absolutely nothing but a few tears and maybe some sadness. Sixteen years, and just now, I'm realizing how lucky I honestly am. A person can write about taking bullets, they can speak of it too, but until they've felt the wound that's left behind, they know nothing. I know nothing. I have everything I have ever wanted in life, and yet, I'm still not happy. I don't like you, but the idea of you intrigues me enough to keep you around. Mildly problematic, as you can see, and I can feel the dirt around my feet cave into my own grave. It's not much... it's not much at all; but it's worth two pennies.