i always blamed my lack of free time for not reading but boy do i feel like an idiot literally all i want to do is read it’s so damn relaxing
Another night, another dream wasted on you.
why can’t people just like the music they like
i’ve always had an image in my head of what i want my future to look like and the closer i get to ‘the future,’ i realize that my image has long been shattered. i’ve grown up reading such heart wrenching poetry and i knew from a young age that i wanted to write something that will grip someone as strongly as these poems have gripped me. what’s more is that i’ve been given these experiences throughout my life that should have given me a deeper insight into what it is to live and what everything in life really means. but all that’s turned into is storage. i keep it all in my mind, i have no idea how to express it. i can take a guess at why. i guess i don’t know where to start; there’s so much that’s happened, so much that can be told and it’s all extraordinary, which is the other reason: i feel as if nothing i write will give justice to the actual experience. i want more than anything to write something that will make someone feel something.. anything. i don’t know what any of this is even supposed to mean. i just feel like the only time i’ve ever been happy with myself was when i wrote something that i thought was good. i always feel like i’m missing something because there are so many poems and pieces of writing that seem so effortlessly incredible; i read them and i melt in my seat. i wish i could make someone feel that.
I literally feel completely different every single day I don’t even know who I am anymore.
i can’t find my old journal. it’s the only journal i’ve ever finished. there’s so much in there that i want to read. sigh.