| | I called her on the phone and she touched herself and told me to quit my whining 'cause it's bringing her down.
Those two songs were reeling in my head, here and there, dappled on each of my thoughts. But the real thing that's bugging me is this itch on my butt that is seriously stressing me out. I cannot even write a complete sentence without the need to stop, reach down my pants, and scratch the right hemisphere that is half of my cheek. Freak. Now that I've acknowledged it, it has subsided and now I can continue with this slew of nothing which would actually be a lot better than some of the things I'm just dying to type. Type type tpye type type type pety.
I don't have any life lessons. I have suggestions that might be helpful in certain situations, but they're not potent enough to be labeled anything important. On the principles I live by today and the actual thought that goes into my actions, I cannot determine if they are any right or if they are fully wrong. Either way, it's really all that I have, isn't it? I'm just dying to one day look back, laugh at the fatuous axioms that I carry each action and mutter each word by and find myself in a state of heightened enlightenment. What I'm scared of is being stuck and never maturing, never growing, and finding myself as an eighteen year old boy for the rest of my life continually niggled by perpetual thoughts that cycle in and out of my head. I love that word.
Since I do have an older brother and I did hang out with his friends more than I did mine, I find myself stuck in a semi-lamentable thought.
I have huge problems with people who expect you to grow up too fast. There's nothing glamorous about being older, wiser, with no real reason to get up and act a fool. In fact, it's very limiting and restricting. I have no clue as to why some people are trying to rob childhoods, imaginations extended to the skies and above, and pure and complete joy.
When we grow up, everything's so tainted. Our minds are so warped and inoperable compared to the workings and functions of a child. We desperately cling on what barely works and gets us by while the child is limitless and is furthering its growth. They radiate so much goodness while our hearts are dead, etiolated, and cast aside so we can survive in this world.
When did I turn into such a bitter human being? Maybe I need to channel and empty out my stress and burden. It might be the fact that I can't keep my eyes open for more than four seconds at a time, but it seems like the more I know people, the more I'm either delightfully surprised by who they actually are or am utterly and confoundedly disappointed because of how they are so ... typical. But it sucks to say that because I've already come to the conclusions that we aren't special. We aren't our own person. As much as I'd like to believe that, there is someone just like me out there in this world thinking the exact same thoughts, dreaming the exact same dreams, and manufactured by the exact same God. It's beautiful in the sense that we're all universal, that we're tied together by more than some genes that distinguish us from animals, but it also makes me sad that I'll never be as unique as I want to be.
LOL look at me, blogging at three in the morning. I know better than that.
|
| | Posted 2/13/2009 2:40 AM - 5 Views - 0 eProps - 0 comments
- recommend
  - recs0
- share
- email
 - sent0
|
