i have a reply that would spill here across the page if i just rightclicked and hit paste. i typed it out with you in mind, the answer to what you last said. see...its right here...
because i think profound shit when all i want to be is drunk and naked. bitch. couldnt even invite me along. ha. i hate always thinking too much. i want to be dumb and drunk. but i guess there are too many other peoples emotions riding along with my thoughts for me to be reckless like that.
i failed because of laziness, i failed because i shot the pilot and i was begging someone else to fly this for me. and hes not the type to take control over anybody else. i know he needs to leave so i can find myself and i am scared of how much of myself is still in the boy. i will call you tomorrow.
but now i read your journal and now all that is so trite and silly. it doesn't tell you about the white lines that spell things across my skin and embarrass me now that i'm grown up. it doesn't tell you how when nobody could possibly understand or believe how much i hurt, i used to write words in my skin so i could hurt and bleed and know that i was real and alive. i am so tempted to go back in my journals and find the one about how i hate that we are expected not to cry hysterically, but then i would be afraid that it would look like i was saying my words could say it better. your words gave me tears in my eyes, they dont need help from me. sometimes i read your thoughts and i realize they are mine and i realize that i like you more than you know.
you know i've been there. you have too... it's all good love.
I saw two deer plating out in front of my parents house here in Denmark today, the sun was just up, birds were starting to sing. I need to get the fuck out of here.
i know how that feels, there's a big appartment building in view of my bedroom window, i used to go there.
to a balcony on one of the highest floors at night and i'd look out over the city and i'd fantasize about what it would feel like to leap over the edge of the balcony.
i wondered if i'd finally get one moment of freedom before blissfull oblivion or maybe i'd panic and regret it halfway down and it would stretch out into a eternity of regret before i hit the ground.
hell maybe i'd really get screwed and there would be a god in the end afterall and i'd get send to hell for killing myself.
in the end i'd always turn back, the uncertainties ahead and the mess i'd leave behind always convinced me to turn around. (or maybe i was just a coward)
it would just affect too many people i'd reason, my parents, my little brother, maybe even some people who considered themselfs my friends.
the cool night air still smells so sweet up there and the building is always there in plain view of my room, kind of like a little promise that there's always that way out.
Hey Knockout... thanks for the e-props on the make up thread... I didn't even notice if it was for girls or you know, THE girls. I feel stupid now! I guess I just got so excited at how beautiful people are when they aren't building atmosphere with makeup and hair and lighting and stuff (not that I don't appreciate that, cuz I do). I think you are so drop dead gorgeous, and the fact that you use colour in ways other than makeup is like the best icing on the cutest cake.
PS- I was a very, very angry teenager... I can totally relate. *hug*
because i think profound shit when all i want to be is drunk and naked. bitch. couldnt even invite me along. ha. i hate always thinking too much. i want to be dumb and drunk. but i guess there are too many other peoples emotions riding along with my thoughts for me to be reckless like that.
i failed because of laziness, i failed because i shot the pilot and i was begging someone else to fly this for me. and hes not the type to take control over anybody else. i know he needs to leave so i can find myself and i am scared of how much of myself is still in the boy. i will call you tomorrow.
but now i read your journal and now all that is so trite and silly. it doesn't tell you about the white lines that spell things across my skin and embarrass me now that i'm grown up. it doesn't tell you how when nobody could possibly understand or believe how much i hurt, i used to write words in my skin so i could hurt and bleed and know that i was real and alive. i am so tempted to go back in my journals and find the one about how i hate that we are expected not to cry hysterically, but then i would be afraid that it would look like i was saying my words could say it better. your words gave me tears in my eyes, they dont need help from me. sometimes i read your thoughts and i realize they are mine and i realize that i like you more than you know.