Isn’t it funny how in the aura of writing and typing haunting thoughts and raving emotions, one can feel so in sync with what they express, but then when one revisits the words they have written, these same musings seem so foreign and unjust.
I wonder if this reflects me somehow.
I don’t want to look like I’m from here. I don’t want to look like I belong.
We stain cigarettes and coffee cups with harsh lipstick. We play our music loud while sitting in the same spot we usually do at the same time we usually meet. We compliment strangers who could care less and argue about ethics and religion then laugh about that one time about that one thing. We skip class to eat at cafes and when we’re in class, we plug in headphones to drown out the muck but still seem to communicate with each other. We play music and procrastinate. We do things we shouldn’t and say things we shouldn’t. We run around on dark winter nights but we don’t feel it. We do things we don’t want to and do things we do. We challenge each other and give up on each other only to turn back to one another once more. We eat things we don’t want and dream like there is no impossible. We fall in love with drummers in bands who we’ve spoken to approximately five times.
Well, one of us at least. One of us falls in love with drummers in bands with girlfriends.
We collect numbers like trading cards and make mistakes like they’re air and we’re drowning. We say we’ve given up but we keep trying. We’re haunted by exes and taunted with loneliness. We’re bored and we’re busy. We want love and we want freedom. We want to be our own and each others.
We are depressed. We are insecure. We are prideful. We are loud.
We judge. We cry. We argue. We sing.
We are love. We are lost. We are we.
Maybe it’s my Gemini tendencies. Maybe I’m connected to the moon spiritually and it tugs at my emotions and thoughts like the tide. Maybe I’m stuck between this world and the next because I feel oh so disconnected from both. Maybe my happiness is different from other people’s happinesses. Maybe we’re all just living, breathing organisms on a floating rock watched by the sole being who thought of us.
Everyone seems to have it all together and I feel as if I’m the sole person trying to patch together my entire being. I feel as if I’m the only person who wonders if there is even another person wondering about them. I feel as if none of this matters. College and work and “goals” and careers shouldn’t matter. We have short lives and we spend them doing things we don’t like to please people who don’t truly care. We don’t have a stretch of life ahead of us. We are short stories in a book of eternity.
I don’t know what I’m saying but I know how I feel.
“Just get me out of Summer camp, already and let me start college.”
What I learned at college orientation:
•Essentially, the only thing that matters is how many people you could possibly almost remember by face.
•Pep is what one cannot do without.
•”Oh, come on it’s not that bad.”
•If you don’t fit in; you don’t fit in.
•Gay guys are the best friends you’ll ever have.
•Change your personality for others.
•Have a G-O-O-D M-O-R-N-I-N-G!!!
I am so tired of fake bullsh*t.
Like, just tell me what college is really like, ok? For my whole life I’ve been told all these sugar coated things. I don’t need a barely twenty-year-old to tell me I can’t go outside during orientation lunch. I don’t need other twenty-something year olds to tell me that I need to “lighten up” etc etc.
I wish I didn’t have to go to college.
Life is just a huge high school.
Better Days by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros
Mayla by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros
I have always been artistic. It is just a natural instinct for me to pour myself into a medium. Too many things in my head causes them to cluster and bunch together to the point where I have to take moments of utter stillness to chisel them out.
This new project I’m doing falls closest to my heart, I guess. I have this box of things. Jars of things. Bins of things. Thoughts and doodles scribbled on scrap papers. Things I’ve collected due to some odd sense of not wanting to lose them, seeing a glimmer of value and sentiment in them. Pieces of my life I’ve kept for years upon years. I’m taking these fragments and assembling them in a big book of me.
I’m smiling like an idiot because it all sounds so selfish, but I feel like it’s something I have to do. One step towards…whatever.
It’s like a huge scrapbooking project of junk.
Quite metaphorical, actually cx
I hereby challenge you to just create.
Create your world and mold your thoughts and slap shit on paper and call it art because it’s yours.
In art, I sow a bit of my happiness.
And I’m perfectly okay with that c:
I’m happy and no one person could ever take that away from me. Not ever again.
With love and messy hands,