You allow me to be happy and sadder than sad.
But you don't want the sadness..
No one wants the sadness..
It's not a virtue..
But isn't it, in a way? I care enough to reflect on these things and regret..
But nothing comes of it.
Fine, fine. But how can I pretend the darkness exists not?
The others, they don't know.
They like you.
I like them, a bit. They're nice to talk with, the feeling of attention from someone you are mildly interested in...
But I want to leave.
How stupid am I?
I need to leave behind the past here, but I'm flirting with disaster, perhaps. It depends on how the cards are played.. But you don't need more of a reason to tie yourself here.
Here.. Can I ever escape the things that make here terrible?
How can I get over things?
How can I sit here and wonder these things? I'm sick. I know how he feels. He feels like I do. This is more about him than me. I need to leave them both, though; one, for me, the other, for him.
How did this all happen?
How did this all develop- the way I began, where I am now, in terms of love and relationships- even platonic ones?
How can I ever have anyone know me when I can't tell if I'm this boring shell of a girl, semi-sarcastic and endlessly refusing introspective meditation upon the current things or the nostalgic, sad, battered girl compiled throughout these years?
Who would want to befriend EITHER one of those people?
Who would want to marry either one?
Why do I worry so much about marriage? Why do I have an innate desire to be married, one day, and to love for the span of my years?
Why does flirting sicken me, when I don't believe that in small amounts it is beneficial, even?
Where would I be if I were the type of girl to flirt? Would I have made more empowered decisions regarding who I dated- waited a bit, really thought things through, chose who I really liked- or would I have gone crazy all the more and lost myself to even more guys?
What do all those guys think of me now?
What is this world? Is it the shallow nothingness but NOWness that Squilliam sees it as? Is it the depth of the past and future- and the tragedies held within both- like I view it?
Or is life both?..
What does all this really matter, anyway? Why do I write so often, on every topic, and with so little effort into making something worthwhile of it all? Why do I care- if you think hard about it- if I ever have a guy to kiss or, if I am blessed, understand and adore? Why do I seek after all these things that, independently, mean so little? I need not to write, nor to sing, or walk, or eat most of the things I do, or listen to music, or hug, or speak. Yet if I lost all of them I would lose my life, more than likely.
How in an instant a human dies. Alive, one moment, the next, dead..
I could die.
I could die now.
They could die now.
I fear of that. The life they've spent so far is already broken...
Broken. How is it that they are so?
Is everyone? It seems so; everyone I talk to thoroughly shows the symptoms of various types of deadly problems.
But you only get to know weirdos.
Normal people have never interested you.
Are there really any normal people? Aren't there just those who pretend to be normal?
Guys; I think there are normal guys. I don't trust them to be what I want. There may be a quiet one, a kind one, but he's all the more dull.
He wasn't like that.
He is now. Except he's no longer quiet, is he?
Let's not think about him.
Those dull guys, they are the ones you have to watch out for.
You'll never fall for the loud, amiable ones. His ecstatic socialization would turn you off instantly. The quiet ones draw you in, and you frequently risk ensnarement. Depending on who ensnares you, and what motives and thoughts lay behind their quietness, you could end up all the more destroyed. Quietness hides depth- which can be delightful and murderous and, at times, both- but it also hides indifferent insecurity. You know the indifferent, insecure ones. You don't want to break their hearts. Likewise, you don't need to become enraptured again.. Not so soon.
Not again, maybe.
Maybe love is dull. Maybe it's best when you like the person as a platonic friend more than you ever have a passion for them.
It's not exciting, but it's stable.
It's not fulfilling, but it's lasting and steady and able to serve it's purpose, so long as you don't whine about what you think you could have.
Marriage. I could be married, now, were it a hundred years ago or two hundred.
What about those ages produced woman ready for marriage? What are the factors that have completely changed the whole process and road to marriage? How are we supposed to navigate the road with a thirty-year old's mind, a sixteen-year old's body, and enough spite and bitterness to span a lifetime?
I need to get away.