You are what you do of yourself
There isn't much I want to write about. The last times have been critical with the lack of ideas andit is hell even to write a simple letter. I can not write. I am going mad.
I came home from work about one hour ago - I am working in a cafe where I have been a costumer for years and where so much life has been lived (a few comments on an old video on Facebook have made some bittersweet memories pop out). The work has been kind of tedious tonight, but it has been cool. It is always cool, even when it's not. In the end, staying pissed off at situations that I cannot control, staying pissed off at people that are merely my cpstumers is worthless. My time, my patience and mental sanity are way more precious than all of those people and moments.
I am smoking a cigarette, sitting on my large sofa, while the tv passes a supposed horror movie. The muted tv keeps me company and that's it - instead, I could be at the window, feeling the wind on my face, as the smoke vanished in the air. Or I could have made it t the gas station to have a coffee in the dawn, watching strangers passing by, buying their cigarettes, going to work or the discos. I am home instead.
I also could be in a lover's bed. One of those countless lovers that I get as pne night stands, simply because I don't want to get emptionally attached to anyone. If I suffer with my loneliness, it's merely my fault. I have chosen it this way, becauseI have loved too much once, to realize I wasn't more than a simply desire - and now I see YOU and I feel more important than what I have believed at first. And I feel there's anythong stronger between us. So,ething stronger than Heaven or Hell, than Time itself. Perhaps, it's not your fault that I run away from feelings and from emotional affection (is this even the right word?) Perhaps, it's me hiding from the world, hiding from myself, hiding from what I know that might be stronger than I can dream of, stronger than what I remember, stronger than what I can handle, than what I want to handle. In the end, love is merely good for poetry - all the rest is flesh. And moans. And sweat.
I am trying to figure out a way out of here. I am trying to figure out a way to reset all the original settings. But thereis o other way than going ahead and work with what I have, with have I have left.
I am sitting here. And there isn't much more that I can do now. Except to continue to listen to some music, to enjoy the world wide web, on what this wicked and madened tablet allows me to. I can't even go to my bed to use the Internet, as the sign is to weak to get in my room.
One day after another. And I keep building myself up.
One day after another.
I came home from work about one hour ago - I am working in a cafe where I have been a costumer for years and where so much life has been lived (a few comments on an old video on Facebook have made some bittersweet memories pop out). The work has been kind of tedious tonight, but it has been cool. It is always cool, even when it's not. In the end, staying pissed off at situations that I cannot control, staying pissed off at people that are merely my cpstumers is worthless. My time, my patience and mental sanity are way more precious than all of those people and moments.
I am smoking a cigarette, sitting on my large sofa, while the tv passes a supposed horror movie. The muted tv keeps me company and that's it - instead, I could be at the window, feeling the wind on my face, as the smoke vanished in the air. Or I could have made it t the gas station to have a coffee in the dawn, watching strangers passing by, buying their cigarettes, going to work or the discos. I am home instead.
I also could be in a lover's bed. One of those countless lovers that I get as pne night stands, simply because I don't want to get emptionally attached to anyone. If I suffer with my loneliness, it's merely my fault. I have chosen it this way, becauseI have loved too much once, to realize I wasn't more than a simply desire - and now I see YOU and I feel more important than what I have believed at first. And I feel there's anythong stronger between us. So,ething stronger than Heaven or Hell, than Time itself. Perhaps, it's not your fault that I run away from feelings and from emotional affection (is this even the right word?) Perhaps, it's me hiding from the world, hiding from myself, hiding from what I know that might be stronger than I can dream of, stronger than what I remember, stronger than what I can handle, than what I want to handle. In the end, love is merely good for poetry - all the rest is flesh. And moans. And sweat.
I am trying to figure out a way out of here. I am trying to figure out a way to reset all the original settings. But thereis o other way than going ahead and work with what I have, with have I have left.
I am sitting here. And there isn't much more that I can do now. Except to continue to listen to some music, to enjoy the world wide web, on what this wicked and madened tablet allows me to. I can't even go to my bed to use the Internet, as the sign is to weak to get in my room.
One day after another. And I keep building myself up.
One day after another.
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