He could calculate twenty moves ahead, but he couldn't express his feelings to the woman who loved him.

     

    To describe myself short and sweet: I am fiendish for routine and smitten with simplicity. I always pictured myself  with wild hair following bad decisions after failed promises. Kissed with cigarettes and fantasied by demons. I had dreamt of a life for my self that was an undeniable waltz with misfortune. I wanted something that would break me, turn me into something hideous. But as I get older, I can't help but fall in love with absolute simplicity. I always thought that I wanted something dangerous, but instead I long for the picturesque and not the gruesome. 

                I long for sitting in bed, listening to silence as I drink tea and read my books. I want to go on dates where the goal isn't rebellion but instead to eat sandwiches in an empty Jimmy Johns. I'm happier living in the moment instead of lingering on the idea of freedom dug up from the trash. I love my stability and my simplicity. I don't need to be fantastic, and I don't even need to be someone everyone wants. Really, I'm happy living my life with no guidelines or expectations. The simplicity if my routine and my daily life being slow and undeniably normal, makes me content.

I really am happy. I'm excited for the future, even if for now, I'm living just as I am.

“I’m walking out now into the soft light, the cooling him of evening, and I will love you tonight, and tomorrow, and still many more, so very many tomorrows.”
― Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Vera

I am going crazy

    Why do I let my heart run away to insane asylums? I am a fool. An utter lunatic in my devotion. I believe I have been gripped by a madness that I feel comfortable in. My obsession has become almost an a sweet drug, almost like a caramel coffee with the right amount of everything. Love actually feels good when you find someone who wants to be with you. I feel like I'm perpetually in a strawberry field. But I feel like my devotion and obsession can be scary and I'm especially worried that I'll loose him. That'd be a fate that would lead me to full insanity.

God I'm a creep.

 

“I don’t know how to be silent when my heart is speaking.”
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights

Dissonance found in a Rainstorm

 

    I believe I am a good person, though my coarse voice that spills out in fire has a response that will never agree. What am I but a fool with fickle measurements of what a saint is. Because surely I have not reached that. Though I've been told that when I look at myself like I am the other side of the mirror, my questioning results in assurance of morality. I sometimes question if I'm a narcissist, but if I'm questioning it, I'm most likely not a narcissist. Am I delusional or am I really a good person? I don't know, and I think I'm okay with never knowing. 

            I think I'm becoming a mix of worst and best parts of my mother and father. My father is a creative with an interior made of sickly sweet marshmallows, but he's neurotic stressed out man with the nature of pain. When stressed out he becomes entrapped in his rage. My mother is type A worrier, she's a brilliant women, who's educated and a talented poet and writer. But she's an addict of tragedy and drama, with a love for mind numbing chemicals. I am a mix of these unfortunate souls, that produced a honey flavored cake. A mix of their good, wrapped in a bow. Yet I feel scared that soon my flaws will become a copy of theirs. Even though critically, my flaws are nothing like them, the monsters they hide behind shadows. I have the most brilliant kind people as parents, Ive been taken care of and loved. Yet still as I age and become what they fear, an adult, I worry that I will reflect them. They aren't bad people, they've just been handed tea cold as ice with no flavor. It's not their fault, it's how they were raised. I appreciate how they've tried to teach me better and raised me to be someone, unlike how they were. They are great people, but I hate be to compared to my mother, I hate when I'm told I'm just like her. I'm not. I am not a version of my mother, I've worked hard to try and be different from her. For that matter my father to. Though a combination of their talents, I will never be them, I am not my parents, I am me. I think that's much better than being anything like the flaws that entrap them.

     Who knows, life is strange. Who knows who I'll become. All I hope is that I am someone.

“I long for you; I who usually longs without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.”
― Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena