- Mood:
Longing - Listening to: mr millard
- Watching: juno
- Eating: party mix
- Drinking: water
okay this is only here because its the only way i can get it from school to home without like losing it or whatever. it was due first class today but i dontt hink im gonna make it, for some silly reason.
psilovejamieeee
In the world, there are many kinds of people. There are those who sit around all day doing nothing but drugs; those who could play guitar or write or draw all day and all night, stopping only to eat or drink; then there are those who party day and night, who need to be with people or else they will simply perish. Of course these are not the only kinds of people, but a fair sampling. Look around you, and these people are easy to distinguish. The drug people are often wretchedly introspective, but are willing to divulge their entire life story, if you ask nicely. The artists, writers and musicians are really quite similar to the drug people, but lacking their indifference for the world. They love to think and to discover. The partygoers are however a bit different. They’re loud, almost obnoxious; they have opinions about almost everything and aren’t afraid to admit it. Over my life, I have been known to fall into all these categories, but now I feel I’ve found my place right in the middle.
On a fateful day long ago (it must have been April of 2004,) I began my expedition into the land of altered realities. Every other day was a trip into another world of hazy vision and jelly legs, walking through forests and across fields to find little elves that would bring us good fortune. For years, my entire life was based on drugs and a single friend, someone who is still very dear to me, though we’ve grown apart.
After a while, however, I grew tired of this lifestyle and began cutting back on my mind-alteration. The things I was experiencing become less enjoyable, and many things I once found uplifting and comforting were growing malicious, causing me to break down more than once under their pressure. I stopped this practice just under one year ago, but I know I would do it all again if I could.
Even in these times of trouble, I found solace in expressing my thoughts through artistic interpretation. Long stories, short poems and heated internal debates fueled my existence, sometimes making their way into other people realities through song or art or otherwise. But mostly these things I kept for myself, often discarding the paper when I no longer agreed with the thoughts or feelings I’d taken down. Because of this I have nothing to show for my efforts, only thousands of trees left pulverized in my wake.
fo' rizzle?
Overwhelmed
Unhappy
