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Calculating the percentage's of what can possibly end up being fathomable.


i have lost the will to write anymore. the passion and longing for it is deep down, but my motivation is gone. i read the words of others and i barely make it half way through out of boredom and repetition. i am not sure if this is depression or if this is just growing up but my how times have changed. i don't know myself very well anymore. there was a time there where i was content in who i was deep down, where i felt most at home in this body of mine. now i'm so wrapped up in making a good impression on my physical cover that i've let the weeds get over grown in the garden. i am not blossoming, but i am certainly aging. a lot of things are still the same, though. like my love/hate with my heart and brain. we still fight on a regular basis, and the doors still get slammed shut causing every loose bolt to rattle. under neath the many layers of false bravado, my originality still lies, getting smaller and weaker as time ticks forward. i am losing my wonder and my desires, and stressing on what i need to break in order to finally be at peace with myself again. i'm not as nice as i used to be,

was I ever?

and i think that is a sticky mess of realization and aggravation for the same chains that have plagued me for years now. i feel very rushed in my life because each year is always the same and i am hungry and anxious for it to change but i know.

  • i just know.

i need to stop knowing and keep inching the tires over that speed bump. i think i've gotten the first two over, but i seem to be driving a semi i didn't sign up for.

aug 22 2016 ∞
oct 7 2016 +