On nights like these when I squirm so restlessly and my mind rolls at an unearthly speed, I hate laying alone in silence. I question life; I question religion; I question myself.
It seems to me that my life has been a series of things that I have loved but could never have... I wish those words were mine, but I stole them from a book. All the same, I do feel this way. It's all forbidden fruit that I lust over. I like to pretend that it's for the best and that if I were to actually have what I wanted, the very fibers of my existence would unravel. I'M SO SELFISH. If that were fact, then I would be inferring that the world revolved around my life- all the decisions I make cause everyone else's existence. Ha.
I think the truth of the matter actually goes something more like this: It's not that I don't know how to love, it's that I don't know how to be loved.
Who am I to pretend I know what I'm talking about though? I would like to think that I am the most in sync person and that I can analyze any situation and just know how to solve every problem. I'm arrogant, but ignorant. I carry on pretending to understand the abstractions of life, like hope, love and imagination. It's all irrelivant, I suppose.
Content. That's what I am. I could try harder, but I don't mind my life as I know it.
It's all meant to inspire but instead we stand, hands in pocket, facing foreword, afraid to exist as something more than normal.
I almost deleted this several times, but I didn't for some reason. It's all white noise.
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