Because apparently I suck....
O hay thar~!
If you're currently tuned in: it's A OK. If you're tuned out: it's also A OK~!
I don't mind much...
Anyways... I've fully convinced myself that no one care what I do anymore. So I can post what I want and when I want. And supposedly this is a good thing.
Well... Since I think I've finally tripped and gone down the deep end. I'd like to think that I wouldn't care too. Well isn't this just peachy.
So I'll just ramble for today. Coz who cares if other people think that one is still alive. I know I still exist... somehow.
But that's not the point is it? Sooo... the point is? NOTHING!
That's right! NOTHING!
Surprised? You bet I am.
So what now?
I'll begin.
I am supposed to write. I have received a request to write. Except that it's not a request since I'm being bribed with sparkle and squee. And then there are the gifts that I still need to do because I simply suck at networking. And then is the fact that I'm already trying to get help from an outside source. So yeah... I should be able to write but apparently I still can't sit my ass down and actually do something.
Which is why I fail at fandom.
But then again non-existent people would say: "But you're writing right now." And I'd say: "So what? I'm not writing what I want to write." "But, you're writing something that your going to post. You want to write this." "So? I don't want want. So how can you call that wanting?" "... what?" "See? Now STFU."
So I need to write. Coz if I write, I write. I do something. I create something.
People tell me that I can write and some will even try to convince me. (To them I would gladly say: So what? I just write for the sake of writing. The things you've read are prolly soulless pieces of myself. Hardly things that would make me proud.) They'll give me praise which I gladly take. They feed my ego and my hunger to be recognized. Yet I constantly tell myself that I do not want it like this. I do not want this praise for something that I did not enjoy or even feel for.
And then you get me pouring out too much of my soul. But it isn't for the love of my current life. It isn't for the profound aching in my heart and the lies I constantly repeat to myself. It isn't created with passion but with the flimsy facade of myself that I inwardly deny. It is created by the person that exists rather that is. Or maybe it is really the other way around... I cannot tell anymore.
But then again... this is reality. A constant dance with all of your walls and masks. Each step, each flick of the hand places another you for others to see. What you see is different from what another sees. What the other sees is different from what another sees. What I see can never be what anyone else sees.
Because I'm the dancer. The weaver. Me.
And then it comes to the point that one begins to believe the dance. Believe in the dance. Believe that one isn't dancing but merely going forward. Everything begins to come together and meld into one. Who you are and who you are not is of no importance. And one gets lost.
So who am I?
If I met you everyday, would you know who I was? If I just met you a minute ago, would you remember who I was? If I actually told you who I was, would you believe it? If you observed me for the rest of my days, could you be me? Would any of these help if I didn't even know myself?
But then again... no one would know.
If you're currently tuned in: it's A OK. If you're tuned out: it's also A OK~!
I don't mind much...
Anyways... I've fully convinced myself that no one care what I do anymore. So I can post what I want and when I want. And supposedly this is a good thing.
Well... Since I think I've finally tripped and gone down the deep end. I'd like to think that I wouldn't care too. Well isn't this just peachy.
So I'll just ramble for today. Coz who cares if other people think that one is still alive. I know I still exist... somehow.
But that's not the point is it? Sooo... the point is? NOTHING!
That's right! NOTHING!
Surprised? You bet I am.
So what now?
I'll begin.
I am supposed to write. I have received a request to write. Except that it's not a request since I'm being bribed with sparkle and squee. And then there are the gifts that I still need to do because I simply suck at networking. And then is the fact that I'm already trying to get help from an outside source. So yeah... I should be able to write but apparently I still can't sit my ass down and actually do something.
Which is why I fail at fandom.
But then again non-existent people would say: "But you're writing right now." And I'd say: "So what? I'm not writing what I want to write." "But, you're writing something that your going to post. You want to write this." "So? I don't want want. So how can you call that wanting?" "... what?" "See? Now STFU."
So I need to write. Coz if I write, I write. I do something. I create something.
People tell me that I can write and some will even try to convince me. (To them I would gladly say: So what? I just write for the sake of writing. The things you've read are prolly soulless pieces of myself. Hardly things that would make me proud.) They'll give me praise which I gladly take. They feed my ego and my hunger to be recognized. Yet I constantly tell myself that I do not want it like this. I do not want this praise for something that I did not enjoy or even feel for.
And then you get me pouring out too much of my soul. But it isn't for the love of my current life. It isn't for the profound aching in my heart and the lies I constantly repeat to myself. It isn't created with passion but with the flimsy facade of myself that I inwardly deny. It is created by the person that exists rather that is. Or maybe it is really the other way around... I cannot tell anymore.
But then again... this is reality. A constant dance with all of your walls and masks. Each step, each flick of the hand places another you for others to see. What you see is different from what another sees. What the other sees is different from what another sees. What I see can never be what anyone else sees.
Because I'm the dancer. The weaver. Me.
And then it comes to the point that one begins to believe the dance. Believe in the dance. Believe that one isn't dancing but merely going forward. Everything begins to come together and meld into one. Who you are and who you are not is of no importance. And one gets lost.
So who am I?
If I met you everyday, would you know who I was? If I just met you a minute ago, would you remember who I was? If I actually told you who I was, would you believe it? If you observed me for the rest of my days, could you be me? Would any of these help if I didn't even know myself?
But then again... no one would know.