An Attempt at Expressing My Insanity

Beginning a project is always exciting, but this one specifically has got me extremely excited. For the first time, I've got a talented artist, a new friend and wonderful human being named Kyle, who is creating artwork from my drivels of words I've thrown up onto a page. It's always a special privilege when someone finds your work intriguing and inspiring enough to bring it to life on a page and I'm taking it with more than a bit of giddiness. That being said, I don't usually post samples of my work on here because I either don't think its worth anyone's time or I simply don't want to share. However, this time, I feel like this piece is worthy of a bit of showcase if for nothing else, to make a record or to at least give a taste of what I'm doing. So in the next few days or weeks, I plan to post up little portions of what I'm writing for both Kyle's benefit as well as my own. Can't promise it'll be amazing, but it will be something I'm starting to grow proud of for whatever it's worth. 


Here's to the creative cliff and jumping off. 

Epitaph in Silence

There seems to be no sympathy

For the people that we used to be

So we run out into the sea

Hiding no lies, we struggle and fight

Just for one moment to feel satisfied

Oh we try, and find there’s nobody inside

There’s just time.

Up and out we go, but nobody knows

How to find what will help us to grow

So we take a deep dive into the snow

Crying and wishing, we’d find ourselves missing

To come back and see loved ones sitting

Then come running, hugging, and kissing,

Only to wake up once more.

There seems to be no sympathy

For the people we used to be,

So we run out into the sea

Feeling so washed away, one day becomes every day,

Wondering if we should go or just try to stay,

Choking on words we never could say,

Only to end up alone.

Misplaced

It's a strange feeling; being misplaced. Like you've been there before but you just don't quite feel like you belong. I suppose it's should be frustrating by now but rather, it doesn't really make me feel like anything at all. Which is probably worse. Actually if I had to say how it makes me feel in particular, its mostly just...thoughtful. I've always been a horribly thoughtful person even when I try hard not to be. Sometimes it makes me feel like one of those people they make movies about whose mind just isn't quite on the same wave length as everyone else's. Not in a good or superior way. Just different. I suppose it doesn't really make a difference at the end of the day. It's not something I can change or go to the doctor to have fixed. And it's not like I'm broken or crazy or something like that.

I just am. I'm me. For better or for worse I suppose. Not really a comforting thought, but a true one.

But being me comes with its quirky qualities. Having constant obsessive needs to write and create and imagine being the biggest one. I serious do not think I have the capacity to go for even one hour without thinking of something imaginary. It's not that I hate my own life or anything that clique. I simply just see nothing in real life right now that warrants extra thought. I probably wouldn't be so caught up in my head if I talked to more people, but who the hell is really worth me trying to explain all this to? Certainly not anyone at this university. Yeah, I got friends here and I love them as much as I can, but they really don't want or care to understand. Which is all well and good with me because I don't really want to care to explain it to them.

It just takes too many damn words. Then I end up looking like some kind of crazy, self-absorbed person who just goes on FOREVER without actually getting anywhere. I don't even want to know how many people find me completely annoying. It's probably a lot more than I'd like to think, but on this matter, I'm going to stick with ignorance being bliss.

Funny. I hate it when people talk about depression because every time it gets brought up I feel like laughing my ass off at how stupid people are. Everyone gets down/sad/upset/lonely and humans just love being victims so much they gave it the name "Depression" so someone could cook up more medicines for us to abuse.

Oh, America you little messed up child you.

But I'm off topic, my point is, whether or not I can be labeled "depressed" is completely irrelevant. What IS relevant, is that I'm content to be this way. Frighteningly so. There are quite literally times I feel completely disinclined to be around anyone. It's quite the mystery how I have any friends at all. Someone give them medals for sticking it out this long.

Loneliness is the real kicker. Some days are better than others. I write, go to class, watch movies, read a good book, and just get lost in other stuff, other worlds, other people (Imaginary ones. They seem to like me better). Silence gets to me sometimes. Music helps and sometimes I resort to acting out scenes from my stories like I'm 12. It's fun, lots actually. A lot more fun than it should be for a 21 year old about to graduate college. But I'll manage like I always do and eventually someone will either appreciate me or not (I mean a man. I got too many women in my life as it is).

More writing. More watching. More waiting. I'm getting good at it.