I Highlight, I Write
Then, I Feel Better
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
I hate the world around me. I hate the blind people. I hate that no one understands the beauty the world posesses.
So, I read. I read books about people who have lived in the ghetto, in the slums. Repeated phrases include, "I need to get out of here before I get stuck like everyone else". Whoa. I highlight. I feel, that maybe, somehow, I'll leave a trace of how I feel behind so that others may see the truth. I journal. Sometimes I feel that writing is secretly a defense of my life; it's a way of leaving my thoughts in concrete, so that I'll be justified...one day. I want to get out of here. I don't want to get stuck like everyone else.
Stuck where? This conformity that is society. I was visiting my Uncle Jack the other day; we were lounging by his pool. I tend to drift off while they talk about meaningless things. I snapped out of my trance for a split second to hear them discussing the lawn. THEY WERE DISCUSSING GRASS! I couldn't take it any longer. I said, "I hope I never end up like you." As soon as the words escaped my mouth, I felt guilty. But it was the truth. He's stuck, he knows it, and I know it. His life is devoid of passion.
I write. When I'm scared, I write. When I'm bored, I write. When I'm pissed, I write. Somehow, the beauty of words wraps a blanket around my soul and protects it from all that harms.
I look for truth. I search for statements that are constant, that would hold in any situation. There are not many of these that exist. But, every so often, one will suddenly appear...and my mind finds rest...rest from so many lies...analogies that seem to me like highlighting a truth, or a lie, with a black marker.
Sometimes, my own eyes scare me. I have to look away from the mirror. I feel like if I look any longer, all the pain behind them will shatter the glass with a force so incredible the shards will fly out....and I will be no more. So I look away.
Trinitie
So, I read. I read books about people who have lived in the ghetto, in the slums. Repeated phrases include, "I need to get out of here before I get stuck like everyone else". Whoa. I highlight. I feel, that maybe, somehow, I'll leave a trace of how I feel behind so that others may see the truth. I journal. Sometimes I feel that writing is secretly a defense of my life; it's a way of leaving my thoughts in concrete, so that I'll be justified...one day. I want to get out of here. I don't want to get stuck like everyone else.
Stuck where? This conformity that is society. I was visiting my Uncle Jack the other day; we were lounging by his pool. I tend to drift off while they talk about meaningless things. I snapped out of my trance for a split second to hear them discussing the lawn. THEY WERE DISCUSSING GRASS! I couldn't take it any longer. I said, "I hope I never end up like you." As soon as the words escaped my mouth, I felt guilty. But it was the truth. He's stuck, he knows it, and I know it. His life is devoid of passion.
I write. When I'm scared, I write. When I'm bored, I write. When I'm pissed, I write. Somehow, the beauty of words wraps a blanket around my soul and protects it from all that harms.
I look for truth. I search for statements that are constant, that would hold in any situation. There are not many of these that exist. But, every so often, one will suddenly appear...and my mind finds rest...rest from so many lies...analogies that seem to me like highlighting a truth, or a lie, with a black marker.
Sometimes, my own eyes scare me. I have to look away from the mirror. I feel like if I look any longer, all the pain behind them will shatter the glass with a force so incredible the shards will fly out....and I will be no more. So I look away.
Trinitie
