There’s been a curiosity inside of myself that I have yet discovered a way to tame, and I’m always getting myself into trouble. It’s like I’m reaching for something that’s only representing itself as a dream, I fear that once I grab it, it’ll disappear right through my fingertips.
Sometimes I wish I never….stop.
Anything real is never a waste of time.
But I’m hurting.
I want clarity.
I demand it.
I deserve it.
I’ve loved hard enough, and sacrificed a sufficient amount of time, money, thoughts, breaths, steps, words, countless nights of insomnia, and still am I not considered?
I don’t want anything if I am not acknowledged.
Attention and acknowledgment, they’re totally different from each other.
Attention, you crave it, you yearn to be catered to. Acknowledging something in someone else, not being able to worry because they’re willing to pick up as much slack as they can, and still aren’t handed enough clarification, is the only scenario that I do my best in avoiding.
Feeling everything deeply, has been my curse and blessing since the age of 12.
Picking up one side is my best asset. I’m always prepared for the worst, but this… I am not.
Sexually explicit art is something I can’t even enjoy as much as I used to, my imagination flips and I see two stories instead of one.
I laugh at that, sometimes I laugh so hard, by cause of drifting through life and realizing you could never take anything so serious it drives you straight towards seriousness. Even if it means the world to you.
I’m scared that my twisted imagination is a reality on a side that I can’t see.
I see clips in my head and I ignore it purposely to keep occupied with something else. Something stronger.
All I can hear is the same breaths that were my own.
I lead myself to my own disappointment when I think too much.
Somehow, I feel like my gut is doing this on purpose.
Im doing the best that I can to let go of my past… because it’ll dictate my future if I hold onto it too tightly.
But what if I’m right?
If my imagination is apart of a reality that I can’t see…
I will vanish quicker than ever before.
The pieces of my heart have been broken down enough.
I’ll take them bit by bit and re-glue them to a point where I’ll be bulletproof, so next time, it’ll be so much harder to enter my universe.
That’s if there’s any reason for a next time.
Silly isn’t it ?
Lack of communication can drive one mad, and advance them to heartache from breaking news that they haven’t even received yet.
I sigh and glaze both of my hands, slowly along my face, that’s the best comfort I can give to myself besides tending to my body by taking personal time to plot my future as best as I can, whilst I think of ways that my career could fit in a picture so diverse, featuring how to think about planning a life with someone that may or may not be around if you …
Here I go again. Assuming the worst.
I need a pillow, hot cocoa with marshmallows, porn, some instrumentals, a few documentaries and a stress ball.
I should be fine by then right?
Wish me luck.
(Journal entry, 3:56 am)