“In the end, you have to think that all of this is love, even if sometimes the arrow of love is not pointed in the right direction. If you start seeing everything in a venomous way, I think you’ll go mad.”
Sophomoric attempts at expressing myself. Maybe even frosh, pre-frosh, et cetera, et al.
Sometimes I feel so juvenile when you give me the reminder I am “not” an artist. My half cursive chicken scratch and my cartoonish doodles are rarely shared because of this. I want to open my world to you, but the more I write, the more I step back into the burrow.
I would rather be physically naked facing you on than unraveling my heart, only to smell defeat. Maybe I am more shy than you take me as. This doesn’t mean I am any less brave.
What happened to my intelligence? Eloquence? Standing over my breathing body and staring into the eyes of an emptied mind. Callously wringing hands in joy of the silence I have finally found within brainwaves of overanalytical thought.
Then the quiet slowly seeps in. It deafens my soul.
How is it one can be so terrified of wasting time? It turns to schizophrenic projects and loose morals and constant change. Wasting time sleeping. Wasting time not tasting your food. Your life. Wasting time with worry or fear.
But loving is never wasted.
This is not going to go on forever. Take it for what it’s worth.