There is so much I don't get!
Like how I care about people that don't deserve it, How I always say "no, that's wrong" and how I always get involved.
Not anymore. I don't want to help anybody if it makes me look bad. Not that I care about what I look like because I don't care at all. I just don't get why I say anything...
I'm so bad at just being a friend...I always stick my nose into everything and that's not fair.
Let nature take its course for goodness sake! Leave them be...let them learn...and maybe they won't have to learn because they're probably right. I should always know and never try to shake, that I am always wrong.
So what if the mouse wants to cuddle up in the crocodile's sharp jaw...that's not my business because frankly, I shouldn't care and obviously don't.
No. I do care but when I say I don't care i'm wrong anyways so you could figure I'm really saying I do care.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Fine Line
To me
There's a fine line between fantasy and reality. My version of 'fantasy' can be split into two worlds: the part of reality that I just can't get around to believing, somehow it always shocks me and, the full definition of fantasy; imagination at its wildest, dreams of what I wish would be real, my true desires and the calming comfort I save for times when life becomes the bitchiest bitch of all. The fantasy-reality is chaotic because of its sick pleasantness and false-hope it gives which comes after the bait is bitten. In this 'world' everything makes me happy, but it's only temporary and then it fades away as if after knowing I can have something--after experiencing it--it no longer has as much value. When it comes and starts to pass, I think of my hypocrisy. Selfish, it's so silly, all the times I said I wasn't naive and that everyone else was...but sometimes it isn't always about being naive; it's hope. Fiction is just a charade and I hate its beautiful refuge.
There's a fine line between fantasy and reality. My version of 'fantasy' can be split into two worlds: the part of reality that I just can't get around to believing, somehow it always shocks me and, the full definition of fantasy; imagination at its wildest, dreams of what I wish would be real, my true desires and the calming comfort I save for times when life becomes the bitchiest bitch of all. The fantasy-reality is chaotic because of its sick pleasantness and false-hope it gives which comes after the bait is bitten. In this 'world' everything makes me happy, but it's only temporary and then it fades away as if after knowing I can have something--after experiencing it--it no longer has as much value. When it comes and starts to pass, I think of my hypocrisy. Selfish, it's so silly, all the times I said I wasn't naive and that everyone else was...but sometimes it isn't always about being naive; it's hope. Fiction is just a charade and I hate its beautiful refuge.
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