Guilty Reading Pleasure: A Rant


sometimes i barely make it to the end, what’s the point really? does it matter anymore than if i even start at all? what about the times when my hair doesn’t look right? my clothes don’t fall right upon my obnoxious awkwardness? the days pass with hours of lazy boredom; as i sit at my laptop working, pretending to love it, wanting to relive moments from my past when i was younger, braver, more of a risk taker; i am not so much anymore. from beginning to end to the beginning again, i start over thinking i missed something important only to find the complexity wasn’t worth it to begin to end it; what about today? what about tomorrow? will this change? or will it continue to burrow: into my mind, my thoughts grow with antagonistic ideas…wanting to relive my earlier years; when my body was smaller and my teeth were straighter; starting to wonder why does it even matter…life is what we make it, or so i have heard…sometimes i wish i was born with wings to soar high alongside the most high, an eagle would suffice or maybe an owl? insomnia being my friend lately the latter would describe my lack of sufficiency, lack of uniformity, yet also the acquirement of skill; my writing tends to improve when i am still, wanting to bend and break all the rules, but do it in a way that you love me still…i am just me, these are my thoughts; what would be the answer if i had asked if you ever loved me at all?