(no subject)
To say that this is a return would be false.
I'm simply stopping by.
Life? Well...it's an endless journey. I've been wandering for awhile...searching for awhile. For what? Who knows? Still, after all of these years, I can't help but to note that I still feel indifferently separate from it all. The world is a place that I view from a window; or perhaps from the sky.
Fish under ice.
In air; across dusty skeletons of moth's wings.
I'm still infatuated with music, and still supressing it. All and all I haven't changed much. No boys, no snooty "life" full of "friends", head games and trying to keep myself on top of other people.
I'm still just...me. It seems as if all the world around me is changing; evolving, and I remain in the same place; just turning my head a little to take different views of it.
This keyboard vibrates; resonating with the gentle hum of its lifeblood; electricity.
Everything is pink, white, or a faded shade between the sky and carribbean blue.
I have direction, and I have goals. But, I'm still a little cowardly. I still forget things, and I still "forget" to do things because I'm simply too shy. But I'm so so optimistic, and so, so hopeful. I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings...and then the day after.
Yet, it's bittersweet.
The life, the world around me...the dolls I set up in this perfect playhouse are growing up and starting to show their marks.
Everyone is human except me, and yet I am the most human of them all.
What is the world? Why do people change? Why can't everyone hold onto the perceptive purity of a child? Or am I just insane, and afraid of getting dirty?
I still pine after beautiful people, and I still search for something pure. I've always been searching for "that thing", that purity, that burst of life---the energy that is all and nothing.
Since the I was a child.
Because I still am a child.
But perhaps this search is what separates myself from others. I want that perfect something; I'm not afraid of getting dirty, I just know that the pleasures of this world are devoid of that perfect thing, and that I don't want to become distracted.
"Blood on the leaves, blood at the roots..."