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Under the sheets
Mind rages into the night

Sleepy but not asleep
Afraid that I would lose these thoughts
Fleeting
"like the breath of a buffalo in the winter"

For so long I see this ideal version of myself, who is friendly, warm, confident but not proud. So often I wish to be that person. No, I am not completely blind, I know what I want, and where I should go. But it is hard, this struggle to be a pretend version of one's self. An act, it's all an act.
Now I, now I worry about my incoherence again. My inadequacies, my loneliness, my despair. Struck down by that feeling again this afternoon, under the hazy blue. Felt so alone, felt so, hopeless. Didn't try to reach out, but, wanted to.

I want to write before I label myself a failure. I want to create before I lose all sense of meaning, purposeful visions and goals constructed by the strong man in my head. This man lives in both the future and in my dreams, his life complementing another sadder being, the cumulative whole of my... My fears, my.. Fears.

Inadequate and lost, at a loss, but not without a map. It is this dangling hope of a better road ahead that punishes me.
The concept that I will live tomorrow,  and that I will have to live tomorrow.
As I battle what is deep and what isn't. What I can find in this deep, deep trench within me. My ramblings resemble rookie mistakes, rookie wrongdoings reck and wrought.

Mouth is dry. Cannot speak, stream of consciousness.

To create is to, to create, to write is to,
Dip myself in ink,
Spread out on canvas.
My life imprinted
My life left on white, and everything that is me, is black.

Contrast. I shall view my own, and feel shame, sometimes joy, sometimes anger, sometimes woe. Only understandable by me, and perhaps the person I become.

And on and on these ramblings go.

Will I, do I have the verve required? Do I have the nerve required?
As I ponder these incessant voices, I lay awake in my bed. Eyes slowly closing, and now I hope I can be brave for another day, and take opportunities as they come. Maybe, not thinking too much about things that pertain to this youthful living.

Set my mind to the quickness of life and death, an unwise decision perhaps, but my mind is finite and my wisdom, is naught. Flatter, flattering, flap away these compliments, I hate.

Incoherence, deciphering.
All seeking meaning in a life that is privileged.
A boy, who thinks himself a man because of the brown hairs sticking out from his chin.
Spoilt little brat, who has so many problems, when he should have none.

And on to the next point.
I balance practicality and bravado daily. To seize the day, or to let things lie. To be a friend, or to be alone. Sometimes, it really is easier to make plans and say things.
Tomorrow, if I do arise, I will try again.

11/11/2015

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