Trite.
illuminate me.
The amount of time I've spent counting the dots on my ceiling is equivalent, and inversely proportionate, to the amount of time that I've spent trying to get my life in order. The number of times I toss and turn before I'm able to fall asleep for even fifteen minutes at a time seems to have some sort of correlation with either the amount of times I've kissed and never told, or the amount of times something I've put faith into has failed. I'm guessing it's more closely related to the second one, but for every secret I keep, a part of me feels slightly more dishonest. I guess that's just how things work.
There's some nights, some moments, some things that I'm just completely unable to explain and have someone else feel the same chills that I feel. Do you know what I mean? Like when you're describing something that seems so specific to you, but you want someone else to feel it, too. You're sharing this moment, verbally, but not metaphysically and not emotionally, so it doesn't really have the same meaning (or any meaning at all) to the person who you're talking at. I say talking at instead of talking to, because they're most likely not "actively listening". They're most likely thinking about something that's relevant to them and their lives, not your sad attempt at conveying an emotion through a story describing a moment. Your story will have no effect on them whatsoever, most likely. And that's sad.
But, I digress.
Try explaining love to someone who's never been in it. You won't get the same reaction out of a person who's never experienced the "magic" of being in love that you'll get out of someone who knows what it's like. Love is something that's almost indescribable, unless you're explaining it to someone who knows. And when you're not in it, and have no desire to feel it, or have anything to do with such a concept, it doesn't seem to exist.
Certain pictures I've taken, or certain pictures other people have taken, remind me of events and places and things that I cannot replicate, or properly explain. Every time I try to tell certain stories, or anecdotes, they seem to get muddled and confused because placing my emotions in such a story is difficult. It's so much easier to just show the picture, because maybe that picture will evoke something in the person you're telling. The reader, or the listener - they don't get it when just absorbing it from verbal communication, so maybe a visual aid is in order to properly convey an important feeling. They don't understand like you understand, and that's frustrating. If you can tell a story, and get that person to even feel an ounce of what you felt, or get them to picture what you've said without a visual aid of some sort, then I think you should write books, and tons of them. You've obviously got some sort of story telling know how and you should share that with the world.
Streetlights do something to me that I cannot properly convey by just talking about them. Streetlights, and city lights, they're very important to me, in a very odd way. Every time I think about something that has affected me, I am plagued by thoughts of streetlights. I am also plagued by the scent of summer, and the taste of cigarettes, and the feeling of tired, heavy eyes, squinting under fluorescent drug store lighting. I think that my past and present drug use has slightly altered my ability to tell stories, verbally. I trail off and and am unable to keep a straight thought without many other thoughts invading that space. I am easily distracted. Going back to nights where I had one singular thought helps, and streetlights aid my story telling ability.
The lights of buildings and the moth-attracting streetlights aided the vision of a not-so-sober teenage girl with an unlit cigarette hanging out of her mouth. The summer wind blew defiantly in the direction of the flame of the lighter that she was so desperately trying to connect with the end of the cigarette, to complete a closed circuit between her mouth, the flame, and the stick. Futile attempt after futile attempt followed, as she chuckled with embarrassment and slight frustration. She was standing outside of a foreign fast food joint with a boy she used to kiss exclusively. He chuckled in amusement at her inability to light a cigarette, a simple task that would've gone smoothly had it not been for nature's intervention. He leaned forward with his cigarette in his mouth to light hers, letting the smoldering tip make contact, so that she could smoke too. She smiled with gratitude. Like a moth to a streetlight, she was attracted to him in a way that she couldn't explain. I guess nostalgia does strange things to a person.
As she sat on the curb near the aforementioned fast food restaurant, smoking, she stared straight ahead to see the city lights, above the drug store that she was parallel to. The curb was in-between a chain owned drug store and a chain owned restaurant, which made some sort of statement about consumerism, but she didn't care to delve into such a topic when she could barely form coherent thoughts. All she could think of was how she felt like she was in a movie. The boy told her not to believe a word he said. She ashed her cigarette and countered with, I don't believe a word anyone says. Silence. She was a movie star in her head. Why couldn't every moment be this perfect? Maybe it was because this wasn't a perfect moment, and she was slightly delusional due to the drugs and the way she saw beauty in the grimiest, most disgusting parts of life. This was probably not a beautiful moment, this was probably a sad, vacant moment that could be filled with a thousand different, more positive things. But it wasn't.
She could hear the sounds of car doors opening and closing, the sound of loud conversations in cars with the windows open, passing through a drive-thru. She wondered what her ex-boyfriend would think if he saw her on the curb with this boy she had admitted to having a past with, because she told him everything. It bothered her, in a way, that she was sharing this moment with someone who had treated her with less affection than a stranger in the past months, instead of someone who she was claiming to love or felt some sort of deep respect and admiration for. She no longer felt those things for her ex-boyfriend, but she wondered if he would be jealous of her sitting with this boy. Probably not. He was kind of oblivious. She liked the way that this boy looked when he smoked, and she thought his sense of humor was great. She liked being around him and that worried her, because that opened up the possibility of having feelings for someone who does not know what feelings are. She ran her hand through her hair and continued to look forward. She wondered if the moth on the streetlight felt the same way she did. Then she realized, it was a fucking moth. She clipped her cigarette. She liked tonight.
The amount of time I've spent re-typing and re-thinking apology letters, re-drafting and crumpling up and burning apologies, is directly proportionate to the amount of time I should have been letting go. The amount of boys I've wanted to kiss versus the amount of boys I've actually kissed is off, because the second number is larger than the first number. The amount of times I've wanted to run away and start again is just too big of a number to even want to admit, because the amount of mistakes I've made, well, I'm unable to count. I curse too much, and I smoke too much, and I want too much for things to happen. I am a person who lies awake at night and thinks about all the things I want to happen and all the things I wish I could take back, and then regret my decisions. I isolate myself. And I tell stories about things, things that no one cares about, feelings I can't replicate, weird shit that just shouldn't matter. I am inarticulate, and I am broken, and I am numb. I am also sorry. I can't count these dots on my ceiling anymore. There's too many. I give up.
There's some nights, some moments, some things that I'm just completely unable to explain and have someone else feel the same chills that I feel. Do you know what I mean? Like when you're describing something that seems so specific to you, but you want someone else to feel it, too. You're sharing this moment, verbally, but not metaphysically and not emotionally, so it doesn't really have the same meaning (or any meaning at all) to the person who you're talking at. I say talking at instead of talking to, because they're most likely not "actively listening". They're most likely thinking about something that's relevant to them and their lives, not your sad attempt at conveying an emotion through a story describing a moment. Your story will have no effect on them whatsoever, most likely. And that's sad.
But, I digress.
Try explaining love to someone who's never been in it. You won't get the same reaction out of a person who's never experienced the "magic" of being in love that you'll get out of someone who knows what it's like. Love is something that's almost indescribable, unless you're explaining it to someone who knows. And when you're not in it, and have no desire to feel it, or have anything to do with such a concept, it doesn't seem to exist.
Certain pictures I've taken, or certain pictures other people have taken, remind me of events and places and things that I cannot replicate, or properly explain. Every time I try to tell certain stories, or anecdotes, they seem to get muddled and confused because placing my emotions in such a story is difficult. It's so much easier to just show the picture, because maybe that picture will evoke something in the person you're telling. The reader, or the listener - they don't get it when just absorbing it from verbal communication, so maybe a visual aid is in order to properly convey an important feeling. They don't understand like you understand, and that's frustrating. If you can tell a story, and get that person to even feel an ounce of what you felt, or get them to picture what you've said without a visual aid of some sort, then I think you should write books, and tons of them. You've obviously got some sort of story telling know how and you should share that with the world.
Streetlights do something to me that I cannot properly convey by just talking about them. Streetlights, and city lights, they're very important to me, in a very odd way. Every time I think about something that has affected me, I am plagued by thoughts of streetlights. I am also plagued by the scent of summer, and the taste of cigarettes, and the feeling of tired, heavy eyes, squinting under fluorescent drug store lighting. I think that my past and present drug use has slightly altered my ability to tell stories, verbally. I trail off and and am unable to keep a straight thought without many other thoughts invading that space. I am easily distracted. Going back to nights where I had one singular thought helps, and streetlights aid my story telling ability.
The lights of buildings and the moth-attracting streetlights aided the vision of a not-so-sober teenage girl with an unlit cigarette hanging out of her mouth. The summer wind blew defiantly in the direction of the flame of the lighter that she was so desperately trying to connect with the end of the cigarette, to complete a closed circuit between her mouth, the flame, and the stick. Futile attempt after futile attempt followed, as she chuckled with embarrassment and slight frustration. She was standing outside of a foreign fast food joint with a boy she used to kiss exclusively. He chuckled in amusement at her inability to light a cigarette, a simple task that would've gone smoothly had it not been for nature's intervention. He leaned forward with his cigarette in his mouth to light hers, letting the smoldering tip make contact, so that she could smoke too. She smiled with gratitude. Like a moth to a streetlight, she was attracted to him in a way that she couldn't explain. I guess nostalgia does strange things to a person.
As she sat on the curb near the aforementioned fast food restaurant, smoking, she stared straight ahead to see the city lights, above the drug store that she was parallel to. The curb was in-between a chain owned drug store and a chain owned restaurant, which made some sort of statement about consumerism, but she didn't care to delve into such a topic when she could barely form coherent thoughts. All she could think of was how she felt like she was in a movie. The boy told her not to believe a word he said. She ashed her cigarette and countered with, I don't believe a word anyone says. Silence. She was a movie star in her head. Why couldn't every moment be this perfect? Maybe it was because this wasn't a perfect moment, and she was slightly delusional due to the drugs and the way she saw beauty in the grimiest, most disgusting parts of life. This was probably not a beautiful moment, this was probably a sad, vacant moment that could be filled with a thousand different, more positive things. But it wasn't.
She could hear the sounds of car doors opening and closing, the sound of loud conversations in cars with the windows open, passing through a drive-thru. She wondered what her ex-boyfriend would think if he saw her on the curb with this boy she had admitted to having a past with, because she told him everything. It bothered her, in a way, that she was sharing this moment with someone who had treated her with less affection than a stranger in the past months, instead of someone who she was claiming to love or felt some sort of deep respect and admiration for. She no longer felt those things for her ex-boyfriend, but she wondered if he would be jealous of her sitting with this boy. Probably not. He was kind of oblivious. She liked the way that this boy looked when he smoked, and she thought his sense of humor was great. She liked being around him and that worried her, because that opened up the possibility of having feelings for someone who does not know what feelings are. She ran her hand through her hair and continued to look forward. She wondered if the moth on the streetlight felt the same way she did. Then she realized, it was a fucking moth. She clipped her cigarette. She liked tonight.
The amount of time I've spent re-typing and re-thinking apology letters, re-drafting and crumpling up and burning apologies, is directly proportionate to the amount of time I should have been letting go. The amount of boys I've wanted to kiss versus the amount of boys I've actually kissed is off, because the second number is larger than the first number. The amount of times I've wanted to run away and start again is just too big of a number to even want to admit, because the amount of mistakes I've made, well, I'm unable to count. I curse too much, and I smoke too much, and I want too much for things to happen. I am a person who lies awake at night and thinks about all the things I want to happen and all the things I wish I could take back, and then regret my decisions. I isolate myself. And I tell stories about things, things that no one cares about, feelings I can't replicate, weird shit that just shouldn't matter. I am inarticulate, and I am broken, and I am numb. I am also sorry. I can't count these dots on my ceiling anymore. There's too many. I give up.