It's frustrating to be able to be so miserable and not be able to make it into a song or poem. I might be just trying to ignore it all because I sit to write and i can't think of anything to write about. I sit and cry and don't know what I'm crying about. I'm desperate for something and I don't know what it is.
I wish something or someone could resuscitate me.
It's hard to feel so alone in a place that I've resided in for so long. I wouldn't t say lived, haha. I find my friends distancing themselves or vise versa and for the first time in my life I don't care enough about it to try to change it.
I'm doing well in school and that's one of the few things that make me content. The thought of obtaining knowledge is one so beautiful to me.
At least you read more when you're alone. I've been reading Bukowski's Ham On Rye and it's quite entertaining. I've been finding myself thinking of maybe doing similar things the main character would do, but thankfully those thoughts don't go any further than my head. I don't want you to think I'm weird if you have ever read or will read it sometime in the future. Especially, since the character and I are of opposite sex. I'm not going to defend myself. It's just funny to do such adolescent things, seem so apathetic toward authority and awkwardly experiencing things for the first time.
Maybe that's what I miss about being younger. I should try to experience new things. Maybe I'll feel alive again. I sound like I'm going through a mid-life crisis. Gees.