I don’t know a lot about a lot. You know that. I mean, I’m 23. That’s like against me. As if, you can keep my age against me. Rude. But I am young. And I think I’m nice regardless of my life experience. I think I’ve been through enough to be a somewhat complete human but people who are older than me probably disagree. And they’re probably right. It’s neat to see that there are humans who know more than I do and that look at me and think “she has no idea” because it’s a foreshadow into my own life. A hint that I have more things to look forward to.
I just feel bad for people who see me and see nothing, and then I wonder if I will allow myself to become anything. and to be honest i say, look I can write some pretty great things, but when it comes to the one place I write that no body can read but COULD if they knew how to look for it, the writing is equivalent to gum on a brick wall. as in this writing is trash. its embarrassingly uneducated and self involved. like i hardly want myself to read this let alone any one else. and that makes me wonder: the idea that the writing that is solely mine is so trite and the fact that that makes me trite, and the question as to whether the writing i publish out loud is nothing more than fake or trying.
but then you see me, you see me, the me I dont see sometimes, and I know i never even tell you I care about you, let alone I _ _ _ _ you because those words are as barren as my ovaries at this point, and then I think HEY- the me I dont think any one realizes exists, it does exist.
I guess just existing is something to me at this point.
Because the other day I had a conversation with a friend who is so depressed he can’t leave his bed or hang out with his friends, and I chose to say, “I just want you to know I exist” and in that I meant, you can talk to me if you want- just remember that I am here regardless.
I just want you to know I am here regardless.
I don’t even know what that really means.
I think I’m not ready
to answer to that
because I dont