I’ve been thinking a lot during every place I visit. I never seem to have a notepad when thoughts appear, so I’m just going to type away whatever I think of. Hence, no need to read any further since I am sure none of the following will make any sense.
Commence scattered thoughts.
I wonder what people think about when they see me. Do they think of anything at all? I am well aware of my own consciousness around others, but does any of that transfer to the real world? Which makes me wonder about everyone else. How my mind perceives them in one moment and then the next. How my opinions are constantly changing. How I can never make up my mind.
I wish I were an art student. I wish I could paint, write songs, sketch buildings, study architecture, learn about cameras. Maybe it’s the artistic brilliance of this country, but everything around me makes me want to completely change my future. What if I’m not happy enough? What if I look back to these years and sigh with regret, a calm acceptance of all the decisions I never made? What if I deem everything a wasted life? I know I have accomplished a lot, but what if there is just so, so much more I’m not even bothering to achieve? What if my fears begin to define my existence?
I find myself hating her. It’s horrible and makes me bitter, but I also don’t think I care. I make myself do this, click through pages, read the words only to regret them later. Or just to build up another wall. Regardless, I hate how she writes and how everything is hard and dark and broken.
I want to change everything. I want to learn how to use pastels and how to hold charcoal. I want to effectively write down emotions. I want to do far too many things, and I’m worried that this may be my downfall.
I need to write like a sane person again. I really should have brought my journal with me.