we'll call it:
a sign that the brain is, in fact, not connected to the heart.
if my brain is racing at 300 times my heart rate, that is, in fact, the sign that they are not connected.
i can't sleep,
i can't read,
i can't read to help me sleep.
I am calm, there is not a doubt about it.
where is it?
the thoughts i am trying to spill out? because i am thinking them, but i am not finding them in this word processor.
maybe its a sign that my fingers are, in fact, not connected to my brain.
bleeepppp (thats the sound an empty cursor would make if it, in fact, made a sound.
it starts with a broken girl who found herself (found, in the figurative sense) while being broken. she knows why she is, and she knows who she is, but she is still broken. mostly because everyone is broken, but temporarily held together (adhesed, if i may make up words) by the magical world of.... whatever holds them together.
i think what holds us together is the comforting fact that we are all broken.
which is a catch-22, but i'll make it the definitive anyway.
thats enough about that girl.
i am tired.
i wish i knew spanish
This one is about a boy who I love to death and has been a best friend since I was a junior in high school. We tried dating twice, but it was never the right time..
He writes. Maybe stories, maybe songs, or poetry, but either way, he writes.
Have you ever been so involved in something that you get tunnel vision, and nothing around you particularly matters at the moment? That is the feeling of reading his work.
In high school once, I asked him if he was happy.
He told that no one has asked him that in a long time.
I've always hoped he'd use that in a story.