SCHREIB MIR.

When the world and it's ignorant inhabitants make you sad, you must find puddles to jump in, or mix cinnamon, sugar and butter together to form a joyful paste to spread onto the toast of delightfulness. But it falls apart quite quick, or you feel sick. I am feeling nothing at all. I am trying! I am trying, so desparately hard to. But all I feel is sad. And the moments that I am overwhelmed with bubbling-over, tumbling over-flowing love for everyone, no one seems to be around. OR. I am tongue-tied and awkward, posed like cardboard. I hate myself when I am myself. I can only see myself from my perspective, inside my head. It makes everything terribly confusing. I do wish you would write. Because I always wanted to see inside your soul. It was dark and cushiony, and terribly inviting. Folds of warmth and dark, of memories secreted away and hiding. Of absolute scratch surface honesty, and all just for me. And you were supposed to take it as given that there was the same for you. BUT MY MIND IS EMPTY NOW> And I fear that I have fallen and morphed into everyone else. Empty-headed, couldya couldyou youuu could you, see past it?

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending: