(no subject)
Today I said I was going to give up on writing.
Sometimes I find myself making silent vows that are supposed to somehow ease my mind, when the city that I live in, although big, destroys every thought of ambition I might have owned durning my short life. Dreams become (disenchanting) forgotten, like stale saccarhine candy left out on the table for far too long.
And like those manuscripts that lie under the bed, and wait for the opportunity to shine, big clouds that roar up above, always rain down on them. And with the rain those words will wash away, just like files on a computer that get erased. And there is nothing left of that creation you made. And the tears will never bring it back. And the tears will never make him understand.
When do you come to the realization that your battle you held on to for so long has no true purpose? Why do I have to surrender and raise my white flag in the air? Because the world is too weak to consider me? And who am I surrending to may I ask?
Surrending to the thought that I am just average? And the average person that dreams always gets hurt the worst?
What are you protecting me from?
I can't begin to understand this form of protection, when you tell me straight out that I will never be a writer. I am sure that you won't even seize to question why I have given up something that once made me so happy to do.
But my voice, (I learned) is not heard. So how could I expect any of them to read something that I've written? Espeically, when they only ask what is wrong when I am silent.
How can one person be silent and still have a voice at the same time? All I have is a life that I wish would slowly wither away, like those words that held meaning once in this life.
Silence effects everyone in the end.
Sometimes I find myself making silent vows that are supposed to somehow ease my mind, when the city that I live in, although big, destroys every thought of ambition I might have owned durning my short life. Dreams become (disenchanting) forgotten, like stale saccarhine candy left out on the table for far too long.
And like those manuscripts that lie under the bed, and wait for the opportunity to shine, big clouds that roar up above, always rain down on them. And with the rain those words will wash away, just like files on a computer that get erased. And there is nothing left of that creation you made. And the tears will never bring it back. And the tears will never make him understand.
When do you come to the realization that your battle you held on to for so long has no true purpose? Why do I have to surrender and raise my white flag in the air? Because the world is too weak to consider me? And who am I surrending to may I ask?
Surrending to the thought that I am just average? And the average person that dreams always gets hurt the worst?
What are you protecting me from?
I can't begin to understand this form of protection, when you tell me straight out that I will never be a writer. I am sure that you won't even seize to question why I have given up something that once made me so happy to do.
But my voice, (I learned) is not heard. So how could I expect any of them to read something that I've written? Espeically, when they only ask what is wrong when I am silent.
How can one person be silent and still have a voice at the same time? All I have is a life that I wish would slowly wither away, like those words that held meaning once in this life.
Silence effects everyone in the end.