It's clear to me now that I'm literally talking to myself when I write in my journal on this site. No one really cares to read much of anything anymore, but really why should they? Hell, what is it that I could write that would make any difference to anyone if they are not even willing to spend the time to read something that would obviously take awhile to read and to understand.
I feel so disconnected about a lot of things that I once felt like it was the strongest connection in my life. Drawing was one of them. I use to be so competitive with my drawing that I'd literally spend hours and hours at a time drawing a single character to the point where I'd have piles of pencil dander scattered all around me. My hands would be completely dirty and I'd get paranoid thinking that eventually I'd contract lead poisoning.
Nowadays, I don't think I could ever find myself being as competitive with art anymore. I don't think I could even see a finished project. I feel utterly discouraged to paint. The reason I could think of is that there are things in my life that draws a cynnical outlook of my own creation. I think about what I should draw or paint, but then I never even touch on it since there's no will in me to want to do it.
This part of me feels broken.
Feelings, I'm beginning to think that my coworker was right about me. She, a nurse in her 40's, has said today that I am an old soul. The things that I find important are things that are truly important to survival and being a human; that I'm very connected to my feelings and my consience. Amazingly, she said that if I were her son she'd be proud of me, and that inspired hope within me.
I think about what makes life more better for the time being, and what a lot of older people say is that they wish they were younger with the knowledge that they have now. I feel like I'm living that experience, knowing that I know very little of anything really, but truly the morals that we live by govern the general spectrum of our consequences.
I think about this and I see the people around me my same age, and they look happy and I can see that they have friends around them. To my own self, I am really all to myself at this point and am only surrounded by those who I feel are necessary to keep me thriving on.
Love is like the rose inside the glass jar. We try to keep the rose safe from anything that may harm it, and yet if we do not water it and provide for it, it withers and dies without having to be struck by an outside force.
Even to this, there is the perception that the glass is even strong enough to protect the rose from harm. Since the glass is capable of cracking and shattering, there are those significant instances, or the long, chronical extremeties that beat against the physical, self-sustained forcefield until eventually it breaks.
But what is it that really means this much to us that we desire to keep most dear? People can live by themselves in a crowded room, and people can live extrovertly on an open, empty field. Is it this passion to love something and to struggle to obtain and keep this love sacred? And to what extent would we find ourselves loving this thing? I loved art and to this day I still enjoy art, but yet I do not practice it. Is this not hypocritical of what I deem to be reasonably true?
This is a quandry that I cannot understand but only conclude reasonably that I can only know with what I have to work with, and even at that I cannot truly know the distinct truth of that knowledge since it can be deconstructed and eventually contradict the very foundation that it was meant to serve. It is like revenge. I can seek revenge on a person that has done evil to me, but consequently I become the very monster that unleashed evil unto me.
Hmm...
I sure wish there was a someone out there willing to help me continue this thought because these I feel are collections of thoughts that evolve throughout a lifetime. I sure wish there was a way to vent out my perception with another's perception to ultimately get a feel of what I truly am, rather than just speculating what is crazy and what is genuinely specific and within the means of the common, rational consience. I wish there was a way to spread my thoughts out like a swing of a bat against the sea, then have the entire ocean ripple in growing waves as though God himself blew against the water. I wish there was a way to love without having to feel the pain of doubt or loneliness. I wish there was a way to ease the pain of life itself without having to physically impair my realm of thought. If there was a way to completely open my mind to the overwhelming onslaught of insight that the universe could ever grant to an individual without any gracious thought of cynnicism lingering within the bowels of my soul, I would love to be that way.
Unfortunately there still lies the belief that we ourselves can never be perfect, and so perfection is only a dream that we could ever want. We want because we think we can need it for a cause that can be of little to great significance to our ever-wanting lust to satisfy our dream of having a perfect environment to think around; but truly our want is ultimately battered by the conditions that life grants our limitations to tug and constrain.
Hmm...
I can see now why people could care less to ever want to read so much since there are plenty of other things that people could ever want to do to satisfy their hunger for happiness. But really, life is painful.
+Bloodys Corpse+ Community Member 
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