I might have said it before, I never really meant it. It came out of my mouth like a dog without a leash, running through the suburbs. at one instance, I thought that saying it would literally kill me. It didn't though. It didn't make me stronger either. we have always given too much power to words. They can never express everything we feel, we're way more complexed to be stuffed in one snazzy sentence, but here it was, the tackiest phrase that has ever been spoken..."I love you". He looked at me with his puppy eyes like he wanted to say something but just couldn't. He finally broke that wall of silence and barked! Have I forgot to mention it. He's a golden retriever. He goes by the name of Trevor, but honestly he will turn around to any collection of syllables, as long as they're accompanied by the crackling noise of his doggy treats. As he was licking the remaining crumbs out of my fingers, I started to think of what the hell happened to me to make me live full lives inside my head in a matter of seconds. It's more than overthinking because I am never stuck. my mind hops from one idea to another like it's a bunny on easter. i haven't decided whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. it's time consuming, but for me, it's really not. I am diving into immortality every time I wander off. It's freeing, but frowned upon by society for some reason. The world is afraid of people who can survive with nothing but their thoughts. I have always wanted to become everything I could be, every fleeting idea that passed my mind was bound to be my future. I wanted to feel this world whole, and not shy away from its darkness. I wanted to feel gut-wrenching pain and bounce off the next morning. That isn't possible unfortunately. Life is too short and too sticky. Happy moments might slide like droplets of water, but bad ones grab on so tight you would think that it's the only thing you've ever felt. Life seems so interesting from a distance. the feeling of endless possibilities, but when you try to taste one of them, you get lost on a maze of confusion, the only light seen is the idea of adventure, and the childish belief that you're the exception of the rule, you're someone destined for greatness. that's what makes us human I guess...dreams.
This story is the perfect trailer to what goes on my head. everything and nothing at the same time. My mind is my way of experiencing hardcore emotions in a bottled environment. It's my way of making sure nothing sticks, and that nothing will keep me from starting my life one day, like that day will ever come.
I started writing with no sense of purpose and ended up with all of them. Is one really better than the other? Maybe, I shouldn't even break the fourth wall, and address myself as the writer, but like I said, we always think we're above thing, especially writers. I tried writing horror stories once, another time funny ones, but it always goes on to become some sort of an existential crisis. My mind is learning in the made up lives he's living. I am getting wiser, but not in the sense I should be. I am getting wiser by used up materials. I am recycling and polishing my own thoughts and passing them on as new ones. This thought prison made me more aquatinted with myself, like I am my own best friend. That sounds sad, maybe it is, but it didn't use to be. I used to think that it was so cool that I was able to know what's wrong with me and why. When I got a little bit older, I found that all this excess knowledge never helped one bit in curing or fixing whatever I was dealing with right then. a lot of bad things happen to me. I try not to think about it. I am happy though, and I have no idea why. I will spend the rest of my life waiting for the other shoe to drop. My happiness doesn't exist because of somethings, it exists despite some of it. It wasn't calculated. It doesn't feel earned. It just floats there like a buoy, giving me complete access to darkness around me, and a safe way back home whenever I felt like it. People would kill for that sort of thing. Why don't I? That raised the first asked question...What the hell is wrong with me. Every time I type one word, I find it unbelievably therapeutic. Writing is my way of emptying my mental drawers before going to bed. It gives others access to my reality. We might seem that we're all alike, but fundamentally, we couldn't be more different. Our minds, bodies, and luck makes a portrait that should be hanged on the "Louvre". We exist...That's crazy when you think about it, existing. We toy around with words that exceeds our comprehension every day, and then we continue our lives like nothing happened, like it's mundane. Nothing is mundane. That word doesn't exist, it never did. It was created by ungrateful imbeciles that don't have life quite figured out just yet.
A STORY WITHOUT A PLAN. That might be the best opening line I've ever seen. Too much time makes us predictable. Isn't it fun writing every sentence, not knowing what the next one would be. That's very much similar to life. I have no idea whether this qualifies as a story or not. Maybe they're just random words being typed at 1 o'clock in the morning. I don't really care anymore, they're the truth, and the truth will never be led astray. By this point I'm just talking gibberish. words, as long as thoughts are coming to an end, as the sugar is being fully cleaned by my dog's saliva. It's the time for another thought that would start another infinity, but unfortunately, the next one is reserved only for me. I'll be damned if I let spontaneity die here. So, I am submitting this with no filtering, no checking of misspellings that would make me look incompetent. A story without a plan.
