A composer but never composed, singing the symphonies of the overdosed
Temporaryism.
I don't understand why people you know so well or people who claim to know you can just... change. Or rather, the connection changes. More than romance and love, though... just people. Are we merely actors?
I've been watching Dexter for the first time. I don't know that he and I are much different (besides the whole "serial killer" thing). That actually scares me a little, the idea of being so disconnected. But here we are, demotivated and blase about everything the rest claim as worth being passionate about.
These Christmas presents, these certifications and books, these grand plans of materialism... All a 3D rendering of what I think it all ought to mean. Makes me wonder if it works this way for everyone at some point (or at least everyone who walks around with their eyes open).
The dates and appointments that mean so much to me mean so much to only me. The things I would kill for seem to have been caught in others' filters. The words, the gestures, the eye contact... Everything I do is either misread or cast aside. So be it. It's still temporary. It always is.
I just want to claim sanctuary. Somewhere. And pardon me, but fuck you for your labels and obligatory cover letter. It must be easy when the "answer" was probably once a vocabulary word in a pale blue box (I went to college too, you know).
This familiar anxiety from unfamiliar places hurts. Just enough to make a difference. Not enough to leave. Not yet.
The parade continues.
I don't understand why people you know so well or people who claim to know you can just... change. Or rather, the connection changes. More than romance and love, though... just people. Are we merely actors?
I've been watching Dexter for the first time. I don't know that he and I are much different (besides the whole "serial killer" thing). That actually scares me a little, the idea of being so disconnected. But here we are, demotivated and blase about everything the rest claim as worth being passionate about.
These Christmas presents, these certifications and books, these grand plans of materialism... All a 3D rendering of what I think it all ought to mean. Makes me wonder if it works this way for everyone at some point (or at least everyone who walks around with their eyes open).
The dates and appointments that mean so much to me mean so much to only me. The things I would kill for seem to have been caught in others' filters. The words, the gestures, the eye contact... Everything I do is either misread or cast aside. So be it. It's still temporary. It always is.
I just want to claim sanctuary. Somewhere. And pardon me, but fuck you for your labels and obligatory cover letter. It must be easy when the "answer" was probably once a vocabulary word in a pale blue box (I went to college too, you know).
This familiar anxiety from unfamiliar places hurts. Just enough to make a difference. Not enough to leave. Not yet.
The parade continues.