there is a clear view to the bottom of this day. its rainy and i would like it if i just could sit still for a moment without falling asleep.
i took an exam and the girl next to me had ants in her pants. i was jealous. i wanted to move around because i was just as anxious on the inside. and yet. i wrote everything i had to and hated every minute of it.
i saw a girl running today to catch the bus, and the only thing that ran through my mind was, i like when girls run.
then i thought that maybe i was being a pervert, but continued to try to remember every time i ever saw a girl running.
im in the library at school for the first time ever. it looks like a very tiny middle school from the outside, but is very pretty on the inside. the lighting makes me want to roll around on the floor.
im itchy and i like it. im tired but i wont admit it. and im feeling stupid but i dont care.
this is the first day of many days. last night i felt like i was going to explode but i talked to one of the loves of my life and i felt okay when i woke up this morning.
i looked at two year schools that specialized in graphic design that were in a twenty-minute radius from my house.
guess what, i hate school. i dont whisper that to anyone. just scream and pull my hair out and then sit at my computer when i should be writing a paper and play games or wait until someone instant messages me back.
its not a foolish thing. i like to talk when i can and if i am not talking to you, then i probably really do not want to.
this is the way things work, oily and indecisively as possible.
this mood is one misplaced. ill go home and fall back into the routine of no routine. listen to the untouchables sweep lovey words over my ears.
when in reality they are just being friendly and i am just feeling desperate.
no one is a tease. we should all know better. if we knew better, we would never let ourselves fade into hope without knowing about the relapse and withdrawl period. where the blood creeps into the brain and inflates it until it crushes itself from the pressure.
ill let it go one day, the sickly feeling of knowing that i fooled myself once again, laughing at the way the best feelings are often the ones imaginary.
today i looked through this folder i have that keeps school papers and i found a few poems or scraps of writing and lines like drawings.
it surprised me. i always like reading things in retrospect. they always sound good.
i miss feeling that good as i am writing. and knowing that its good as it comes out.
this just flowed from my hands without feeling or thought. and i think that maybe it is best that way. and it will always feel the most satisfying when things fly from my fingertips,
not a word to really be spoken.