5:30
rain
quiet
qoute
quip
quit
That sums it up. Old demons are coming back up in a diluted form. Sometimes lyric writing can be the best thing, but for a moment I don't feel like being a musician.
That's already a lie.
The pictures, the phone calls, the profiles - they used to be close friends. Then old frinds. Then people, voices, occasional conversations. And now blank images. Pairs of eyes and tones that I remember knowing at some point, that I used to go to, that used to come to me. I knew them once. I don't know them now.
Yes, it was still worth it.
I doubt I'll fulfill my promise of going home for Christmas.....wait, this is my home. I doubt I'll be going to my old home for Christmas. And I am stuck between extreme guilt for it and the inability to face a past that no longer exists.
I've often wondered why I write journals in here at all. Very very few people know me here, those that do have access to the other journal. But then again I guess that is the reason I write here - no one knows me. I haven't been able to write in a real journal in quite awhile. And I think it is because at some level, whenever I write, I'm trying to communicate with someone, to talk to an actual person. Maybe it's some buried desire for validation - a repressed narcisstic tendency, but locked in my room and scribbling away in a book no one will ever read - it makes me feel so.....isolated. So instead I hammer out rants and questions and laments to an international dot com world. At least no one here will be offended by being called "blank images".
And still running, dodging, avoiding while seeking. Either hiding behind a bar or a guitar because I'm no good at this social thing any other way. I want to be able to talk again.
That's something else I used to know.
rain
quiet
qoute
quip
quit
That sums it up. Old demons are coming back up in a diluted form. Sometimes lyric writing can be the best thing, but for a moment I don't feel like being a musician.
That's already a lie.
The pictures, the phone calls, the profiles - they used to be close friends. Then old frinds. Then people, voices, occasional conversations. And now blank images. Pairs of eyes and tones that I remember knowing at some point, that I used to go to, that used to come to me. I knew them once. I don't know them now.
Yes, it was still worth it.
I doubt I'll fulfill my promise of going home for Christmas.....wait, this is my home. I doubt I'll be going to my old home for Christmas. And I am stuck between extreme guilt for it and the inability to face a past that no longer exists.
I've often wondered why I write journals in here at all. Very very few people know me here, those that do have access to the other journal. But then again I guess that is the reason I write here - no one knows me. I haven't been able to write in a real journal in quite awhile. And I think it is because at some level, whenever I write, I'm trying to communicate with someone, to talk to an actual person. Maybe it's some buried desire for validation - a repressed narcisstic tendency, but locked in my room and scribbling away in a book no one will ever read - it makes me feel so.....isolated. So instead I hammer out rants and questions and laments to an international dot com world. At least no one here will be offended by being called "blank images".
And still running, dodging, avoiding while seeking. Either hiding behind a bar or a guitar because I'm no good at this social thing any other way. I want to be able to talk again.
That's something else I used to know.
palo:
I think I might've seen you too, but it was at the point where I wasn't sure if I was going to get into the show, and not exactly in the best mood.