We all feel a little lost sometimes,
A little scared, a little bit alone.
We all feel a little bit tossed around,
A little worried, a little bit unsure.
The world is a big place,
With vast oceans, endless roads that stretch.
Curving paths that twist and bend,
Seemingly endless stretches of land.
The world is a busy place,
Filled with people, and places.
Countless, nameless, blurry images;
Cars, signs, buildings, people, planes.
I'm not really sure when the last time I actually felt at home was; and I don't mean in the sense that I feel out of place within my own actual house. I'm talking about Home; a home and place to be - where I just fit perfectly, all the pieces around be fitting perfectly as well - cozy and warm and comfortable. I feel like an outsider in my own life more times than not - just sort of flopping around down this endless path with no proper destination in mind, tripping over obstacles and running away from decisions and sneaking around corners.
People are constantly questioning with their endless... well questions I suppose is the only proper word - nothing witty or tragic or beautiful to use there - they are just questions, countless endless questions that I don't have an answer for. I'm not sure if I'm okay or alright or just fine or wonderful or fantastic or good or well or sick or tired or exhausted or worried or scared - because I'm sort of a little bit of all those things mashed together and shoved into my body. My mind is full of racing thoughts I can't trap down or corner, my heart races and skips and stops at random times, my soul sort of aches and floats and squirms around at the oddest of moments - but I suppose that might just be life.
Maybe that's just what it's suppose to be like. A ton of questions with no answers. A ton of emotions with no meanings. A ton of feelings with no purpose. An endless path just laid before us; placed there for us to skip and jump and trip and walk and run down. I'm not really sure what the whole big picture is suppose to be, what life's true magnificent purpose is suppose to be either - maybe that's the plot twist; maybe there isn't really this major, epic out of proportion purpose. Maybe that IS it's purpose, to be purposeless. I'm not really sure - I'm not really sure I want to know, or if I'll ever figure it out. Maybe I won't ever find the answers, and maybe deep down I really am not all that worried about those answers anyways.
They say that things like heartache and heartbreak and missing people and love doesn't always last forever. That your first love might be the hardest, or sweetest, or most precious - maybe it'll sort of be unforgettable around the edges of your memories because it will always be your first. But they say it doesn't really last. That all that pain and hurt and love - and just all that shit ton of emotion welling up inside of you won't stick around for good; it's sort of a sketchy philosophy to me. I'm not worried about getting over any of my heartache pains, or the aches that set in deeply at the loss of love, or the stabbing pains over missing someone to the point of near madness, or the pure raw feeling of true love that swells and swirls and captures every single piece of you - All these things have made me, shaped me, created me, and broken me.
I'm not in a hurry to forget my memories. It's not about dealing with it, or moving on, or getting over it - it's about letting go while still holding on. I'm not the type of person that gets overly worked up about the things that people say about me, or to me - The initial reaction is explosive and then a few moments later I sort of fall into this round-about thought that sort of swings into "why the fuck do I even care?" And I wouldn't say it's precisely because I lack the proper emotions to care about people - It used to be because I was so immature that it was painful, emotional stunted and out to blame the world for all the pain I felt growing up, all the foolish stupid choices I made as a kid just sort of falling my way through adolescence. It isn't that I don't care for people, or their opinions, or their thoughts, or whatever... But I just don't feel like we have the right to judge or analyze or comment on the life of others; who they are, what they do, who they love, where they are going or what they want to do with their live.
I've always been a sort of selfish person; a little rough around the edges, a little pushed around and stepped on, a little bruised and a little bit broken, a couple of my pieces missing, a few emotions sort of sympathetic and empathetic revolving around apathetic. I've always been a little bit of a child; Peter Pan syndrome I've been told, I want to always have fun and be free and enjoy all the things that life has to offer me, but I'm terrified of truth and honesty and realism and the raw components of sharing an actual life with another person. I've always loved openly and freely and completely; but I've hidden it and locked it away and pretended it didn't matter - I've acted like I didn't need anyone else, like people don't matter to me, like I could walk away without a scratch and think nothing of it. I suppose it's a lame defense mechanism, but it's probably more like just a bunch of bullshit. More excuses I've made, nothing really new.
I'm always a little shocked when someone says that I'm intelligent, because I've always thought of myself as an above averagely intelligent person. I'm nowhere near genius status, obviously not. But I can hold a relatively intellectual and thought provoking conversation, with a whole lot of laughter and joking mixed in at times - because life is too short to always be serious. But I'm always shocked when someone else seems to realize that I'm not dumb as a fucking rock, and then I started to wonder if I give off this vibe that I'm unintelligent, if their have been people that have come into my life and thought that I was just some stupid little girl and left again without another thought. I think that intelligence is something to be proud of, something that makes a person all that more attractive - I'd rather wake up next to intelligent, than beautiful or handsome or sexy.
I've been told recently that I ramble a lot; that I get into these long winded tangents that diverge so far from my original opening statement that they often times think I must stretch across a thousand different thought processes within the span of a second, that my brain must be constantly exhausted and in a state of constant confusion as well. I'm sure that those are probably all actual and logical and true points; but I find it humorous because I wasn't always like that. I find it fascinating that I've become something I used to tease people about, fun that thing we call life is, isn't it?
There is so much of the world I want to see, to experience, to take in and attempt to understand. I want to see everything that the world has to offer me; I want to visit places untouched, un-ruined hands. I want to experience the beauty of art and architecture and life through concrete, glass, metal that has been built around the world. I want to sit down on a bench in a multitude of different places and just watch the different people that wander by; wonder about their story and their lives and their dreams - what sort of childhood did they have, what sort of love do they feel, are they happy or sad, are they content or still searching for something - I want to watch all the faces and read their emotions, creating a life within my mind that I think they may or may not have led. The world is such a vast playground, and I want to leave my mark in all of it's corners. I want to stomp my footprints into all it's paths and roads and beaches. I want to scream my anger off every cliff, and whisper my hopes into every forest, and let go of my laughter into every draft of wind.