Sometimes I worry that I have the same conversations every day. My life is so formulae that it could have been pre decided upon by some exceptionally sad bloke with absolutely no taste. At school, my smile never reaches my eyes anymore. Words come out, but I cannot feel them on my tongue. Sarcasm is frequent in my voice. Some would praise my sense of routine. Others would politely request that I get a life. I need a bad habit; to start drinking volumes of tequila or to simply roll hapless in the mud. I feel too clean. I have the urge to paint my hands. Everything I say incurs new thoughts (and evidence) of embarrassment, That very embarrassment is scalding.The heat of it burning through my clothes. Through that perfect facade I must continue, not through any real wish of my own, but rather through instinct. I try to avoid situations in which I may embarrass myself. As a detrimental result people perceive me to be boring. Sometimes, like now, I feel like an empty shell of myself. Weak, yet at the same time stronger than tempered steel. She is inside of me, she comes through my eyes; the eyes of a ghost.
Occasionally, I have the absurd desire to be five years old again. Where and when I was not surrounded by teenage pretentiousness. By this I do not mean my friends. I so miss those days. Days of clay and mud, of paint and my imagination. But in its own way, five was hard. I had to accept that, in those years, although my childhood would not define me completely, it would have cause and effect hidden in the palm of my hand.
Thinking over things, sometimes, I feel like this. I feel like my hobbies are perhaps too limited to expressing how I feel, but occasionally something I do surprises me with how much of a creative output it can really be. It's for that reason I keep doing these things, because I know without them there'd be no creative output whatsoever.
ReplyDeleteI think it's a goal for everyone in life to find something that really does let their feelings out in a productive way~