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Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Arts · #2042532
I just wrote my thoughts as I thought them. Whether or not it's worthwhile doesn't matter
It was raining, and it was dark. The tidal wave of emotions just filtered out of me like a tsunami of feeling. There was nothing left that I could do. I just let one word fall out of me one sentence at a time. an unfiltered look into my thoughts made flesh. I wonder if I ma good enough to make anything. My thoughts are dull and uninteresting, and I continue to make sub-par and derivative work. I feel like a majority of my time is put towards a part time job and when I get home all I want to do is lay down and never wake up again. There is nothing that can be done for me. I am a lazy sonuvabitch who is too stuck and incompetent to fulfill his dreams. I want to find a way to afford what I want to take from life, but there is nothing for me. I cant move forward. I am stuck in this loop of work play sleep, work play sleep and the only way I can stay sane is to keep playing. I lose my mind because I need experience to work and work to experience. The permission paradox. A loop of bullshit inside an already bullshit covered web. Dress nice so people respect you, don't get a tattoo in any visible place, or people will think you're shit when deep down inside you are more than your skin, and the skin you're in defines you only in the most basic of measure. there is nothing in life that you cant take if you want it, but most of it was already taken by someone else. A tirade of lost emotions. I splatter my words on the page like a drunk man vomiting views on what is and what shouldn't be. I don't know where life will take me, but I would dance there like a ballet dancer dancing on the stage of insincerity. I am a artist in a world that needs us as much as you need ranch sauce with your chicken wings. We make life worth living but we are not worth the cost of admission. Like a amusement park filled with nothing.
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