There are some days, where I wake up and think to myself that I'm done holding hands. Adults, they pretend to be. Adults. Grey hair adorns their weathered heads and faces. And yet they are like children. They require everything to be explained in triplicate, and even when the information is presented broad-faced, they require someone to hold their hand.
Everyone needs guidance sometimes. But in such a manner... it's unbelievable. It's unbelievable how people are. Not that you need me ranting for three pages about it to understand it, but it just makes me think to all the times in my life that I've been dense. It makes me wonder if, at any time, I've been like these people.
Half of you won't answer, but I'd want you to. Half of you will, and I'll wish you hadn't.
Of all the things I would write here, I don't know why but they all sound tired and boring, like I've said them all before. To say that repetition is necessary is an insult to your intelligence, dear friends. I can only imagine how boring it is to crawl the blogosphere, listening in on the white noise of people complaining about their own - by comparative standards - excellent lives. Squandered. Wasted. Because... because why? Because the retail outlet charges too much for clothes? Because everyone's boyfriend is a callous douche, yet you still groom him to be? Because every woman is unfaithful, even those sworn to the opposite?
When I look into those dull eyes, that endless expanse of ignorance, it's like looking across a misty lake, and on the far end, seeing myself staring back. Perhaps this is why I haven't written much in the last few months. Because I can't stand to see myself, let alone hear what I write. As I imagine it, this, long ago, is how others wanted me to be. But now that I see it, I'm disgusted. I'd spit, but such is impossible when I'm just words on a screen.
I think I'll have more to say, but in a while.
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