Idonwannaleaaaave!

A whole frickin' month. It's not fair. I want to take all my friends with me, so I don't have to miss them. Damn, I miss them already.

(The Little Flames - "Isobella")

I can't walk away, either. I'm too sentimental. Can I cry now, please?

Poetry.

Now, I conflict with myself again. How do I learn from the world without being like it?

I give you an example - two different sides of myself:

This I do like, and it's not completely unoriginal, but it's nothing new for experienced minds.

For me. 

Give me a kiss, my love, 

Sending shivers down my spine,

Your arms around my waist.

Let me know you're forever mine. 

Pick me a leaf, my love,

Trace the veins with your fingers.

Then leave it to the wind

To keep it safe until it withers.

Tell me your dreams, my love,

And the meaning that they hold.

What corners of your mind

Do I have yet to explore?

Sing me a song, my love,

Close your eyes in that way of yours.

I'll drink the sound of your voice

And I'll always ask for more.

Now take my hand, my love,

Pull me down and hold me close.

Your love has become my drug,

So let me have my overdose.

And the ending was a tad out of place. Myah. 

Compare with this - 

The vain.

This is one of the caps that doesn't fit on the back of the pen. 

(How unusual.)

And yet, that is but a trivial matter since the important are questioning where? and when?

(I'm musical.)

You probably already noticed, as I was humming some subtle, yet intelligent and classy tune.

(The obvious.)

The cap is on the table, on the floor, the arm of the armchair, perhaps this nonsense will be art, soon?

(Aren't I devious?)

But no, I must not be less than tasteful, although my curves can't help but be more. 

(This isn't boring.)

And taste has no tolerance for melodrama, and only slight clichés, scrubbing breadcrumbs off the shore. 

(My mother is snoring.)

My mother? Oh, yes, of course - I love and respect and care for her, yet am independent and strong.

(*sniff* Not mule-headed.)

The money comes tinkling in, and is gone with the trickster colours, 

but what would sheep do without them? Baa along?

(I shall be wedded.)

If it is trendy at the time, naturally, you wouldn't expect anything less from me. 

(She preens.)

Signed, Jolene. 

Very experimental. Also to be taken rather seriously, and if you try, you can actually make sense of it. 

You see the predicament I'm in? (:

Passive

Man liekas, ka visi zin to sajūtu, kad uznāk tas pasīvias, tas īpatnējais, kad ļoti gribas izdarīt kaut ko radošu, bet viena vai vairāku (neviena) iemeslu dēļ tas nenotiek, un tu paliec tepat, pie datora, vai grāmatas, vai loga, ik pa laikam nopūšoties un jūtoties visnotaļ depresīvi.
Then come the rest of the thoughts - fuck it, I'm going to be an individual, no one can tell me what to do, etc... (What is the point??) Of what? I don't know. No one does.
Un tad tu skaties cilvēkos. Atmiņās. Gremdējies nostalģijā, ieskaidro sev, ka tas nav labi, ka tev ir jāceļas un jāsāk kaut kas darīt, tad gremdējies tālāk.
What have I done so far? What good is it all? (What is the point of existence?)
Tad tu pārbaudi, vai cilvēks vēl joprojām tur ir (tevi gaida?) un turpini klusēt.
Shivers run down your spine, agitating, but pleasant.
Tu pamani, ka neskan mūzika. Bet neieslēdz, jo tad pazustu moments, un tu negribi, lai ta pazūd, jo tā nav prieka sajūta, bet vilinošās skumjas..
You feel the world is ignoring you, but you're hiding from it, damn it, you fool.
Un vēl tu izdomā pasmaidīt. Tas vienmēr ir to vērts. Vai ne?
Un kas esi tu? In the end, who are you? Really?

Words in my head.

And they are there. Constantly. I've been told that I think too much, and, well, it's true. I do. I analyze the thoughts and sentence construction of others, trying to get into their head. How heartless of me, no? But it's endlessly fascinating. I don't think I really "know" a person until I can predict their train of thought to at least some extent. I have no idea what this says about me.

See, questions like "what was I thinking?" dominate so much of our lives, and it's so mundane, as is every deep truth. As hard as it is to find out what the real cause of whatever went right or wrong is, once we do, we have a right to feel pompously proud of ourselves for a moment. This kind of indulgence is candy for my brain.

I guess it's up to you to decide whether my desire to get into your head is a good motivation for a future psychologist or further proof of my insanity. 

It does not make sense!!!

It does not make sense! It doesn't make sense! It doesn't make sense in any comprehensible way! It does not make sense! It doesn't!! IT DOES NOT MAKE SENSE!! It does not make sense! Why? Why doesn't it make sense?? Why does it refuse to be understood?! It does not make sense! It does not make any sense at all!! Is there any more cruel way to agonize the minds of the confused? There shouldn't be such a thing, it has no right not to make sense in such a way!! It does not make sense! IT DOES NOT!! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not....

I am having way to much fun with this.

Can we all go crazy, please?

I'm actually kind of attracted to the idea of being insane.. And I do describe myself like that whenever the opportunity arises, because it's just so damn FUN. I mean, there are those days when you've got this little, yet very persistent ball of energy inside you and you're day is filled with random screams of exhilaration over nothing and general spazz. I don't feel very sane at those moments. This song gives me a feeling of something like that..

(Shiny Toy Guns - "Ricochet")

And GODDAMNIT I can't put the right video here . Way to ruin the effect. Blah.

There's this one person who keeps telling me to "Kill my darlings". Because I'm so sentimental and cannot let go of things. Or people, for that matter. I'm also told that this is a good way of attracting a lot of pain. Yay for nostalgia.  And during one of my rampages through all the stuff containing memories in my room, I realized how much I've changed over the past few years, and that I don't really like that person I was before. She's still me, and I do like me, but nyaahh.. "rather pathetic" is the phrase that comes to mind. Is this kind of thinking healthy? Again with the insanity.