I am supposed to be doing my English homework, or college work, or cleaning my room. Quite possibly all of the above. Instead I sit and fantasize about a world devoid of all human beings. No crazy apocalyptic storm, coupled with screaming mayhem. Just simply waking up one day to absolutely nothing.
I wonder if that's what death's like. I
I know that it's human nature to crave the attention of other beings. But i can't help but fantasize to absolute nothing. It would be a great burden taken off of me. How I adore the sardine stuffed cities, and the minute tendencies only granted to see after great time. But I still crave that nothing world, left behind by almost everything.
How I would sit and watch the weeds grow in places I used to know. And feel the sun sink upon my soul, and know. That furthermore I am alone.
The worst kind of alone is surrounded by ones you pretend to know. An alone felt by many and all, makes me wonder if they too wish.
For the world alone.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Friday, February 21, 2014
2/21/14
Watching movies always makes me sad, even if it wasn't the overall thematic intent. I suppose the sorrow that seeds from it is the fact that, the world is beautiful, and that hurts me. I want to have a first class romance, with first class adventures, and quirky friends. But these thing s simply don't
exist.
I suppose they do in someones' reality, somewhere. And their books will end just fine, but mine. is a different story. The author has all but stopped writing, and simply dumped ink all over the page.
The thing about being used, is that you can't be, if you're aware of it happening.
stupid.
seven
stupid
months
And what am I doing? However pathetic I may be, I will at least admit to feeling. I am all but aware that at one point in time it was shared. Now I am simply an object. Was that not my original intent? I may say it how every many times, but I know deep down that it is not what I want. But I, too stubborn to ever admit will continue on in slight distaste of the dream I will never live.
I wonder what happens to forgotten dreams, do they wither and wilt? Rot like fruit in a panty. Flies grazing as they decay. Or do they stay, somewhere. Their shine long gone, like unpolished silver. Waiting for a day when it will be stumbled upon. Like forgotten heirlooms, accompanied with a faint recognition of distraught panic, of something inevitably lost, but not able
to
quite
remember.
exist.
I suppose they do in someones' reality, somewhere. And their books will end just fine, but mine. is a different story. The author has all but stopped writing, and simply dumped ink all over the page.
The thing about being used, is that you can't be, if you're aware of it happening.
stupid.
seven
stupid
months
And what am I doing? However pathetic I may be, I will at least admit to feeling. I am all but aware that at one point in time it was shared. Now I am simply an object. Was that not my original intent? I may say it how every many times, but I know deep down that it is not what I want. But I, too stubborn to ever admit will continue on in slight distaste of the dream I will never live.
I wonder what happens to forgotten dreams, do they wither and wilt? Rot like fruit in a panty. Flies grazing as they decay. Or do they stay, somewhere. Their shine long gone, like unpolished silver. Waiting for a day when it will be stumbled upon. Like forgotten heirlooms, accompanied with a faint recognition of distraught panic, of something inevitably lost, but not able
to
quite
remember.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)