I find it pretty ironic that the harder I tried, the worse it go. Writing that is. I remember writing as much as I could just because I wanted to, but now it's as if the words are only allowed to come out full of bull shit. It's all honest, really. It's just forced. I remember once someone told me, "You're true blue- you have more grit, fire, and determination than anyone I know". Maybe that was bull shit,too. I suppose that doesn't matter much. I've been listening all night to songs that instantly take me back to moments that I felt things I forgot existed. It's a type of nostalgia that makes me think, but I can't say it makes me want to go back or wish that things were different. I can't even begin to count the days I pined after something that wasn't real- I often wonder if I spent three years dreaming. I find it incredible how I felt things so real and yet there was nothing tangible for a reason. I actually feel embarassed at times because of who I was. I suppose not who I was as a person, but what this imaginary obsession took over. I definitely don't want to go back and I can't say that I want to change it either. I just wonder what I missed out on or if I did at all? I can say that I feel something real and I live reality rather than dreaming what reality looked like in my mind. I'm happy. I'm not the only one who dreamt to never feel. I see people everyday in some other world and I get it now. They take their troubled lives and dream a life rather than living a dream.
