Sometimes it puzzles me when they don't all see the fraying desparate edge that frames everything I do. Thinking makes me sick, and I can't seem to write any of it down, when I so desparately want to. That I don't like being this manic-happy, because I'm not happy, and I'm not really in control of what I'm doing. So, I don't think, or I do, too fast and everything is spilling out, but what - exactly - I don't seem to be aware of it. Because maybe I can't handle that people are real, and that I have to be real like that too. Because I want, want to really feel something. And I'm craving something that matters, because it's never actually been there before, even if it's promised, and I wish it weren't so empty in here, and I'd react to things like someone who can cope. Every attempt I make to explain this doesn't work. So shall I try & try again, or give up, because I'm boring you? That's why I'm a burden, I'm not giving up yet but it doesn't mean enough to make me happy? That can't be right. That I am, inside, where no one sees.

Oh, except that guy...[ ] I really should learn a damn lesson. Make me smile a bit ^_^


Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending: