but that's what i find myself doing.
missing you more and more.
all of you.
the people who are still in photographs around my room.
the ones who may not have accepted me for the most part
but i found a strange comfort in.
i have this unexplainable emptiness in me.
i'm not depressed by any means
but i can't get full, i should stop, but i can't.
i miss the past, i love my future, but it'd be nice to
time travel back and relive some moments.
everything feels so surreal. like none of the pieces
of the puzzle are lining up like they should.
the edges are too jagged.
the key is far too small for the lock.
i suppose coming home, made me wanna leave again.
this is my home, but it's not where i belong anymore.
i would love to travel. see everything i can see.
learn about different cultures. see every tourist trap.
maybe one day i'll find the courage to try it, just pick up
and go. with nothing but a suitcase, some money, my car,
and my best friend.
i suppose i'm writing to be writing. no other reason.
i've rediscovered my love for reading.
when i was a child, that's where i found my peace.
i'd bury myself so far into books, anything i could get my hands on.
most of the time, i wouldn't fully understand the meanings
of the words that my mind would process. but, i found family
in the characters within the covers. the ones i'd stay up with until
the sun would rise. the ones that i would always be sad to see leave
when i finally reached the final page.
i envisioned my life being like those books, exciting, yet typical.
i would have the 'normal' teenage life. perhaps books ended up making
me have the high expectations i have now.
i find myself being the 8 year old version of me. reading as much as possible
to escape reality for a just a few hours.
also, i hand wrote an entry during my week hiatus.
i can't even tell you what i wrote about. maybe i'll type it up and post it.
maybe not.
it's nothing too personal. not that there are any boundaries here.
it felt odd forming the words with my own hand. seeing the letters loop
and curve to form words, then sentences, then small paragraphs.
somehow, it seemed more intimate, more personal. but less me.
i was facing the truth head on. typing seems to require less effort.
you dont look at what you're doing. you just, type. writing requires you to focus
on the formation of each words birth.
alright, enough foolishness for tonight.
i'm going to go enjoy the last half hour of this festive day.
