I'm just in the mood to talk. Or type. But now that I'm in front of my computer, clicking away composing nonsense, I don't want to say anything at all.
I feel flustered, even. I want to hide in a box and shut my philosophical thoughts away. I want to run in the park singing my favorite songs in my mind, I want to write as best as I possibly can, pretending that I am in an apartment in Soho just chilling with my open window to the world before me
But that isn’t my dream; that’s my friend’s dream. Maybe because I could’ve lived this way I regret not, and share the same dream, or perhaps it is because I am so influenced by this girl.
I want so many things, like a better vocabulary. i want to hang with my friends yet don’t want to leave the sense of security my house empowers me with.
I wish I could talk as well as I type.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I have so many questions. In third grade my science teacher pulled me aside, and told the whole class and me that we should always ask questions. Always, for that’s how we learn. My mom tells me to never ask questions, just go with it.
I don’t know how to live.
I shouldn’t ask questions?
But that is like asking me to share a dream I don’t have, with someone else, who truly has that dream.
I don’t know.
Sometimes I want to write music, but I am no singer, nor true musician, nor know anything about songwriting.
Sometimes I blubber and splutter out poetry, just for the hell of it. Then I try and turn out my nonsensical words and weave them into a song. Never works, I never wrote it just right in the beginning in order to make it work. In other words, it was damned from the start.
I wonder where I’ll end up.
I think so much about my future. But not college, or a career, just…housing.
I dream of a tiny apartment, maybe a roommate who’ll have to deal with my constant nonsense (I’ve used that word thrice so far, emphasis on “so far”). I dream of me, a room full of white, clean furniture, big windows looking out to God knows where. In the small kitchen is a lone Matryoshka teapot that I recently purchased. The living room has a painting that was already mine, just claimed, finally able to speak with the outside world after being cooped up in a storage room for so long. There is a fake tinsel tree, pink and gold and candy and glittering glass ornaments.
Now I feel like I really am writing nonsense. I am not philosophical, just a dreamer who can’t write.
My brother’s English teachers dislike his writing. He can sing, he can write, but he hasn’t discovered a drive yet. My drive was, yes, Harry Potter, back in fourth grade. Maybe a little bit of Arthur the Aardvark, too. I remember racing my best friend in a reading contest to see who could read faster. She won, but I convinced her I did. I may have even cried. I am competitive, though I don’t like to say that I am.
I could never write in a diary, just splatter the web of the internet and crush the fatigued and overworked spider that runs it with my…thoughts, feelings.
I wish I could write more clearly. But how?
People make fun of me for loving to spell. So far, I’ve been called weird for liking it. I’m no Grammar freak, I just like to spell. My brother loves grammar.
In eighth grade, I clearly remember my science teacher came around to check our homework. I sat next to my best friend. We were supposed to write a paragraph about the eight planets, or something. But my friend only wrote three sentences, barely acceptable. I wrote a page. Our teacher lectured me for writing too much, and wagged her finger at my friend for writing too little.
She told us to compromise and write more like each other. Neither have us have changed, I think.
Well, maybe me. I don’t know about my friend, but because of my high school education I can write less, just it’s more vague. It just doesn’t work for me.
Sooooo I'm a Hufflepuff, going to the Yule Ball, and I barely remember anything about Harry Potter.
The Yule Ball should be amazing, of course, because I’ve yearned to be in this crowd for years. I’m not so nervous, just anxious, and I want to be perfect, to be accepted. But I should remember that if I wasn’t, I never would’ve been invited to the Yule Ball in the first place.
Too excited, need to find a yellow scarf for my dress! Granted I’m even wearing it.
I’m very vague, I realize. And I really like to use (Oxford) commas and short sentences. I need semi-colons.
I’m being such a girl, and a nerd. I need to stop being paranoid…
So today I met up with my Connecticut friend and we and another girl were supposed to go bowling. That didn’t happen, we met up with some of her/their friends who I didn’t know, we hit up the mall.
I was all quiet until we got to f.y.e (they’re closing, ya know. in our mall, not for good. i’d die if that happened, i just discovered it) and bought my cd’s (RHCP, Modest Mouse, and Gorillaz. I am soooo cool)
But then I became a turtle and started emerging from my shell, beocming less shy, and it felt good, with these kids I didn’t know, all boys. Awkward as it was, they were nice. And funny.
But gaaaaah next time a warning in advance would be good, then I could do my hair properly without worrying.
AND NOW I SOUND LIKE ONE OF THOSE WHINY GIRLS on tumblr.
please don’t let me sound like that, i’m not complaining or anything.