"Not a very good outlook on life."
"Your spur of the moment whims."
"Don't do it out of rage."
None of this makes sense alone. Nothing ever makes sense alone. But once you weave it together, add in the extra splash, and viola, you have the extraordinarily bland, excruciatingly vivid picture of reality. Whose reality?
Yours?
Mine?
His?
Theirs?
Snapshots is all I see. Ideas are all that course. The great idea of a project, the messy idea of a picture. Never make a move out of rage, but only if it involves other people. Always create things out of passion, you may surprise yourself. Line after line, mile after mile, anger after hurt. Why are we always hurt?
Why do we always doubt ourselves?
Why do we never trust others?
Why is it so hard to convey real emotions?
Why must one follow the rules?
Who makes the rules? Who decides who I can and can't be, when and where of every moment of every day? Who decides what looks good and what doesn't? All alone I sit, fester on every fragment and scrap of cloth that entwines the sweatshirt of my being. Why are you everything I could have hoped for, while she is everything to me? People tell me they wish they had my hair, my legs, my personality, yet here I am, wishing for her smile, her body, and her arms?
All alone, are the shards of my brain.
All alone and by myself.
All alone with no cares.
All alone with all the cares that could have ever come to be.
Too many questions, not enough answers. Too many words, not enough thoughts. Too much vision, not enough insight. Too many woes, not enough cares. Too many people, too much selfishness.
No comments:
Post a Comment