in my mind, this is perfect/disjointed
Journaling is an intricate affair, a balancing act of giving everything yet not giving away too much of myself. It's in quiet, pensive moments that my fingers itch for an audience the most, but when the stage is actually set I shy away behind an excuse of obligations and justified selfishness. It's a really bad habit, and after seven years I still can't decide whether this necessity to blog is a byproduct of youth culture or a desperate cry to validate my existence.
I feel most alive on car rides bypassing sprawling hills of wildflowers and trees I can't find in the two countries I've grown up in; I feel most electrified during the witching hour when the cacophonous clack-clack-clacking of keys keeps me awake more potently than any caffeinated drink. Like right now, almost. I like telling people how I feel. I like trying to share how alive I am, how I rejuvenate myself on spring air and autumn coats. But when summer comes my soul is once again caramelised with the sugar of indolence.
I don't like making promises. I'm never sure if I can keep them. I don't like keeping secrets either - I make it a point to forget so that I'll never tell. I like being cryptic, so I'll never have to admit how boring my life can be, or how much pain I'm in from stupid mistakes and loneliness I shouldn't have to feel. Lastly, I like you. Because you're still here.
You're with me.
Can I be like this? Can I skip the logic and the transitions and get right to the gist that I don't know where I am or what I mean to say? Can I be like this - like a child trapped in a grown-up's body, or a grown-up trapped in a child? It depends on the weather, whom I'm with, and how I happen to feel. Can I be erratic and discordant? Is it okay if I show you that I'm not okay? Can I be a slob when I'm around you at home? Can I take the last piece of meat without asking if I could? Can I be rude, can I be selfish, can I be mean, can I not be judged? Can I ask for a little more than all this?
Can I ask for forgiveness, for every stupid little thing I did? You don't have to bear the scars; they're all here on my body. You just have to stay with me. Can I be ugly? Can I still be with you?
I feel most alive on car rides bypassing sprawling hills of wildflowers and trees I can't find in the two countries I've grown up in; I feel most electrified during the witching hour when the cacophonous clack-clack-clacking of keys keeps me awake more potently than any caffeinated drink. Like right now, almost. I like telling people how I feel. I like trying to share how alive I am, how I rejuvenate myself on spring air and autumn coats. But when summer comes my soul is once again caramelised with the sugar of indolence.
I don't like making promises. I'm never sure if I can keep them. I don't like keeping secrets either - I make it a point to forget so that I'll never tell. I like being cryptic, so I'll never have to admit how boring my life can be, or how much pain I'm in from stupid mistakes and loneliness I shouldn't have to feel. Lastly, I like you. Because you're still here.
You're with me.
Can I be like this? Can I skip the logic and the transitions and get right to the gist that I don't know where I am or what I mean to say? Can I be like this - like a child trapped in a grown-up's body, or a grown-up trapped in a child? It depends on the weather, whom I'm with, and how I happen to feel. Can I be erratic and discordant? Is it okay if I show you that I'm not okay? Can I be a slob when I'm around you at home? Can I take the last piece of meat without asking if I could? Can I be rude, can I be selfish, can I be mean, can I not be judged? Can I ask for a little more than all this?
Can I ask for forgiveness, for every stupid little thing I did? You don't have to bear the scars; they're all here on my body. You just have to stay with me. Can I be ugly? Can I still be with you?