i just want to go out in a warm rain and take off all my clothes and roll around in the mud. at times i wish i lived on a deserted island. i think i will be more productive when i'm alone, but i'm usually not. but it's the thought that counts.
the older i get the more shy i become. i hate to improvise. i hate to make speeches. i hate most of the people i assume look down upon me.
i wish i was a sheet of music. i wish i could compose. i want to make so much magic. and yet. i know it will never happen. i try and try and try and always end up in the same place: painting everything black. i tell myself there are things i need to do and i never do them. there are things i tell myself i must never do and i do them. again and again.
why have i become so infantile in my lust for justification of my actions from others? i have become a gossiping bitch who cares only about how he looks in the eyes of others. is it a crime to want to share myself to others? please help me escape from myself.