miserable?

when did things get like this? i'm not miserable but surely i'm a match for eeyore in some respects. i adore the rain. black is my favorite color. i'm fucking emo. when did this all catch up with me? blame billy corgan, i suppose.

i want to start again. can i rewind time and just start out 21 and forget all the other things that happened? that's when things started to happen to me. things that were life changing. things that made me into the person i've always wanted to be. i'm still coping with the shock. i need to learn my voice and to stop thinking so damn much.

i'm starting to regret stuff and i swear that would never happen. i love how everything makes itself so neatly wrapped up in the end. how things fall into place and i've learned to observe and let things go. i'm still bitter -- but i suppose it's necessary.
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have you ever wanted to take a nap so badly that it just wouldn't come? i cuddled up with my favorite blanket (D) and it just wasn't going to happen. i had the postal service playing softly in the background and nice happy thoughs swirling in my head -- but no sleep. so instead, i wrote this and thought about those two missed phone calls smiling knowing he had kept his promise.

boys that keep promises make my ears ring.

i'm not so sure anymore. i'm just not.
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have you ever wanted to say goodbye but not know how to do it? i want to throw it out the window and shake hands and start all over again. "hi, yes...you are lovely." it's like listening to your favorite band/singer-songwriter and remembering, oh my -- they are good and how come i don't listen to this more often. it's that sort of feeling. that's what i would feel like if i did it. if i went through.
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sometimes living your life in a lie is just safer and it makes you feel like a cloud. one of those cloud nines that you read so much about but are an enigma until you finally get there.
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sometimes i ask myself if you are really listening with all the what's and huh's. i can tell you have a caring smile but there's something false behind those eyes but the piercing glare calms me down and i can't stay angry.
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i want to be in your arms all the time. there's nothing like your arms telling me it's okay and knowing that -- yeah, you're right -- and i can stop the tears because i can hear the quiver in your voice. i hope i'm the one that makes you cry. is it too much to think that i can have that sort of power? that little bit of burn that makes me swallow up my pride whole. after awhile, all my words begin not to make sense and i don't really like explaining. i think it's a job left up to the reader to figure out what it all means and why should i have to make up stories, and even if i am does it matter? there is something to say about the form of writing as entertainment because we hold the world in our hands and i've stopped guessing and i've stopped looking and i've stopped. stopped for good and i don't know if i like that. i don't know what i trust anymore because once the world starts seeming too good i have to stop and start all over. i hate that. 
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