Thoughts from 3 months ago

I have so many things to talk about. While I was cleaning my room a bit, I was thinking about all the things I’d write about and in what order I'd write them in yet it was all utterly useless because now- writing- everything flows together so easily. First I want to talk about my surroundings. It's currently 10:01 pm or something around that - my clock is slightly off. It's still light outside, I don't need a lamp to write. The sun has already set and the pale blue hue of the sky just casts all over the city. I can hear voices outside, those of men talking and smoking- they seem so caught up in their discussion. From my window balcony I can see the apartment complex in front of me. The same one I see everyday in that exact same spot. It brings me some sort of comfort knowing that it’s firmly put there, like when you run your fingers through the bump of a plastic toy just because the curve there is satisfying. I don't know if I’m making sense now, I’m not sure if I ever do. And I promise you it's not in the ‘I’m quirky’ way whatsoever, in a way where I’ve grown tired of wanting- yearning to feel understood yet never do. I love the curves of stuff, like when you see the angle between a wall and the ceiling, they just blend into each other and you’re so sure of how strongly put together they are, you can't imagine them coming undone. I could just talk about meaningless things all day if I had to. I have a test tomorrow, I should revise- I don't really want to. It's not that I don't like tests or find them too complicated. They’re just such a bore. Who cares if I know about this and that ? Yet people dramaticise the situation up to a point where you’re just sick of them and it. I want to lay down and hug somebody, feel their skin under my fingertips and feel their heart beating in their chest. I want to feel it, hear it and be so caught up in its rhythm that my body moves at the same pace as it, my breathing in tune with theirs and I’m just happy someone is alive. Alive, alive, I feel like I’m dead. I feel like this world is just composed of puppets and behind each one is a  brilliant master with a story to tell, a goal. Yet I'm just a doll, no master, no reason, just there. Like how the sun is here, the air is here. I feel hollow and meaningless. Not meaningless as in ‘oh, boo hoo, nothing matters, let me die' ' way but meaningless in the way the sky chose to be blue and not green- green is said to be a very calming color too. I hate feeling like a doll, like when I leave my room and eyes are on me as if those are the only things that matter. Like every move I make is to be assessed and interpreted in thousands of different ways. I couldn't care less about people, what they do I don't care for, I don't think about, they just did it, it was done. Yet when I’m pressured into thinking about the best way to please a crowd or as if I were made to please some insignificant individual- the thought gets me sick- the thought of caring ? maybe, I’m not sure. Boys like it when you’re mysterious, as if you were some puzzle to solve, it keeps them interested. Once you share too much, they leave. I don't think I care about pleasing boys anymore, I just say what I think and they deal with it. Maybe it's because I’m fairly interesting, things just pop up in my brain and quickly as they go and once I start thinking- I can't stop. That's why I think so little. It's like I procrastinate because I know there's so much to think about- to care about, so my brain goes on lockdown and thinks about nothing- I go numb for months. I want to care again. I don't care if I was ‘vulnerable’, I loved how much I felt. The vivid anger and joy and melancholy- now all my emotions blur into nothingness. Yes I was unstable and relying on others to feel good- and yes it brought more pain than it did joy but when it went well, It went really well. I still remember how happy I used to get over everyday life. I’m 14, I hate it- I hate numbers- how an age can just change your perspective on what somebody is saying. Like at times I say good stuff, meaningful things with a point but whoever is listening has their minds stained with their already made choices about me. Its just so appalling. Its currently 10:39pm right now. I wrote until here in around half an hour. I want to talk to somebody, feel the curves of my mouth and focus on the tonations in my voice instead of perplexed on whether or not the person finds my monologue interesting and on whether I should stop. I want to talk but its late outside and its night and there are people in the building and i’m not sure on whether I want to wake them up or not. I’ve written so much but I want to speak as I write. When I write- things come so naturally, topics flow in one after the other but when I have to speak, my mind goes blank. The sun takes deep breaths, with each exhale, I feel its air coming to caress my skin ever so softly. I breath in and out and my mind is blank, focusing on nothing but the tunes of the chirping birds in a distance. Soft silk rolls off my skin and I feel nothing but air, I am air. The grass under me is so soft- I feel like my body is a hand being brushed through clean hair. Time is nothing but a concept and nothing exists, nothing to think about, nothing to worry about. I am the sun and the wind and the birds and the air and I’m everything I love.