zephyrinths

It's hard to write when you're not talking to anyone in particular. So, I don't know your story. But because you are reading, you probably know a bit of mine. I'm one for writing long long passages about things I've been thinking, I tend to use my words recklessly but meaningfully. And recently I've been doing a hell of a lot of laying down wrapped in a doona thinking. Maybe I'll think up an imaginary situation, or have a memory replay again and again with more detail each time. He'd touch my hair or my cheek. He'd kiss my face and spin me around. He'd confess his three dimensional feelings and he'd make my heart burn. And I'd listen to Matt or Jeff and wish I felt the same way they do. If I was broken glass, I'd be glued together with the love I always wanted. The glue now would still not be dry, and the cracks would make the glass kind of crystalised instead. I'm a fierce shade of crystal. And I'm so okay with that. The time will pass, maybe all too quickly.
A lot of the time I forget that people don't know what I'm thinking, or understand how I feel. I assume that I've told the people who I think about, what I think about them because after all, I'm the one thinking about them all the time. Then I'll remember the conversations that never happened, they don't understand what's going on and I'm just as mysterious as I want to be. But then I forget that not everyone is a free shape. Not everyone will think even deeply enough to realise the levels that people have. Some people I encounter don't care for the stories and dreams to be shared. Some people just don't have them.
Which makes me think I live in a different height of awareness to everyone else. Yes, it's quite self conceited but some people just don't understand shit and it's hard to relate. It's also really hard to relate to what I write sometimes, I'm sorry about that dear reader. I don't know if you understand what I'm trying to say.
I'm going to start calling the readers of this incoherent piece of scroll Beatrice. Like, as in Lemony Snicket's Beatrice.

Dear Beatrice,
I cherished, you perished.
The world's been nightmarish.

My dear Beatrice's, my life is now. Your life is now. You might die in a train crash tomorrow and you're sitting, complaining and whining about things that don't matter. Some people are so pretty, and some aren't but they should be judged. It's easy to judge people accurately. But everyone's got a story, no matter how they tell it.

I need to start making sense soon. What am I thinking right now?
Boys. Yeah that's pretty much it. Real boys. The boys that you don't encounter in movies, fragile sensitive awkward cute boys don't exist. Thank God. Boys are so much better than girls. I wish I was a boy. And I'd have a companion like Louie and Claudia, I wish I was that in love.

I'm very confused as to whether I'm easy to know. And if I'm the same when I'm alone.

People tell me I'm happier now. I'm so goddamn happy, it kills me sometimes. But I'm getting kind of sick of my fantastical idealism. It's kind of silly. The life I lead is too alternative. Not, alternative as in the genre. Just not a normal one.

Emily told me I have a big ego.

Hopefully that isn't true.

I want to stop there, but I don't want to stop writing.

My thoughts were a lot clearer when I wasn't writing it down.

I just want Beatrice to know that I know what I'm doing, I can definitely think myself.

I would just really like to fall asleep next to someone tonight.