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|What it is to Burn
|The hand on the clocks spins repeatedly for hours, so does my mind. I hope time would alleviate these feelings, but I need to stop lying to myself. Full Collapse, conversation, and this notebook can only do so much. For now, the massive white ceiling will understand. |
What's the missing variable?
I can't conjure a thought original enough to define myself as "unique", or "different." Maybe i'm just another cliche teenager with cliche feelings.
I get down on myself so early, it's comical. It's something you would see on Saturday Night Live. She calls me, smiles, and laughs at my superficial jokes. I wonder how many times shes gotten fuck. She's probably had more one-night-stands than days I've had self-assurance.
For now I'll come to terms with my anxiety. Thursday's War All The Time is the non-existent pill, AnAmericanGod's blogs are assurance I'm not alone. For now I have this journal of disheveled pages hoping it will bridge the gap.
Where Will I be tomorrow? Where Will I be next year?
-Spitalfield- "Stolen from some Great Winter"
|Tags: finch, thursday, common, existence, rant, fuck