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falcongrrlCan't sleep. I might as well write, but I'm having trouble writing. I can't get past the editor that wants to censor every thought. And there's too much that I want to say.
Too many dreams that will never happen. Too many lines that won't be written.
It's not that it's not fair. Life is infinitely fair, I find. It's that I want too much. It's that I want a myriad of lives wrapped up in one. It's that I want every choice imaginable. The cake. And, the cake.
Sometimes I think that I am a bad person. That if I were a good person, I'd be able to be more content with how-things-are. I don't really want to change how things are. I just want to be five people at once.
Schrodinger's cat, that's me. Maybe someplace I'm doing all the things I might want to do. And what I'm doing here isn't bad. It's just one choice.
One choice, just one.
How many selves can we have? An infinite number of selves? How many people can truly know us? I don't think there's anyone that knows all of me. I don't think there's any one who could. I wonder if each other person feels the same way. Probably not. Either because they perceive themselves as quantifiable, or because they don't necessarily need to be understood.
Maybe being understood is overrated.
I want to be someplace else right now. And it's not that it's bad, sitting here at the dining room table, listening to my iPod, fingers clickclicking against the keyboard. It's not a bad life, it's a good one. But there's a part of me that wants something more. That wants to be someplace else.
What do I want? I want to be mysterious. I want to be running along the beach in the dark. I want to be swimming in the ocean. I want to be sitting in a bar knocking back drinks.
Oh well, E's up, and this was getting stupid anyway.
Too many dreams that will never happen. Too many lines that won't be written.
It's not that it's not fair. Life is infinitely fair, I find. It's that I want too much. It's that I want a myriad of lives wrapped up in one. It's that I want every choice imaginable. The cake. And, the cake.
Sometimes I think that I am a bad person. That if I were a good person, I'd be able to be more content with how-things-are. I don't really want to change how things are. I just want to be five people at once.
Schrodinger's cat, that's me. Maybe someplace I'm doing all the things I might want to do. And what I'm doing here isn't bad. It's just one choice.
One choice, just one.
How many selves can we have? An infinite number of selves? How many people can truly know us? I don't think there's anyone that knows all of me. I don't think there's any one who could. I wonder if each other person feels the same way. Probably not. Either because they perceive themselves as quantifiable, or because they don't necessarily need to be understood.
Maybe being understood is overrated.
I want to be someplace else right now. And it's not that it's bad, sitting here at the dining room table, listening to my iPod, fingers clickclicking against the keyboard. It's not a bad life, it's a good one. But there's a part of me that wants something more. That wants to be someplace else.
What do I want? I want to be mysterious. I want to be running along the beach in the dark. I want to be swimming in the ocean. I want to be sitting in a bar knocking back drinks.
Oh well, E's up, and this was getting stupid anyway.