I listen to a lot of music. I get cold easily, and am a creature of the night. I enjoy spending time alone. I am usually incapable of performing normal human behavior (whatever that is). I walk like a robot and carrying my backpack and a bottle of water almost everywhere I go. I like writing like a child. I basically spend my days in my room. One day I’ll grow up and regret spending all of that time in my room. Maybe. One day I’ll realize that I have let every possible relationship I could have had with any person around fall and crash brilliantly (sometimes even before it began). Definitely. I have friends, but none of them care about music as much as I do, so I’ll usually stay silent most of the time because I have nothing interesting to say (unless asked). My mind doesn’t remember the things that interest other people. Sometimes I have no idea what I am saying, and I dislike it when I don’t understand what the problem is (which is most of the time nowadays). I have no idea what I’m trying to say here. Frustration born out of confusion is not a healthy diet. I wish my mind would stop messing with me. It’s OK when it messes with itself because I can sit and watch, but when it messes with me I get frustrated. I am incapable of creating beauty in any form, but can appreciate it. If anything, have found that few things in this life, if any at all, are truly profound. I have no idea why I am writing this. Sometimes I think I’m an autistic schizophrenic bipolar obsessive-compulsive excuse of a human being, but that’s not true. It’s just a way for my mind to let me believe that when I fail, I have an excuse. Armed with this knowledge, I am now determined to free myself from these delusional thoughts. We’re all idiots here and I’m an idiot for realizing possibilities but then leaving them to decay. I wish they’d fall over my head, but they never seem to. Maybe they’ll fall when I least need them to. Maybe I should stop it with this rambling and go to sleep. I think I will.
Here’s a poem I wrote in one of my notebooks a few weeks ago. It’s titled “Nonsense”:
He carried a bag full of broken poems –
A million broken arms, each in a cast,
Cast away at sea, engulfed by waves
Inventing shattered skulls and trees.
That’s it for now. Now, if you will, please allow me to return to my normal-crazy-usually-silent self. If anyone asks about me, which is unlikely, tell them I’m too busy for them to care about me. I’ll only disappoint. me Good day to you, sir/ma’am.
(I thought the violent storm of teenage hormones was finally receding, but the past while has proven me dead wrong.)