moleskine

i want to make sense to someone. i don't want to sound pathetic, or clingy, not even somewhat indecent, just normal and decisive, happy and congruent. i don't want to give pieces of myself away to people who will throw them away in a matter of a few months- i hate that the most. people seem so decent, even genuine and different, but they do something or a series of things that make them the most despicable of them all. i hate how i end up blaming myself though. i wish things were so much different, and we didn't have to thrive and live off of things like self-validation and reassurances, because i know i am so much stronger than those words. i hate talking about myself, but i love it at the same time. i am shallow and indecent, but i really wish i weren't. i wish i could record all of the things i felt into real, legitimate words, but here i am, stumbling over ineffable, ephemeral feelings, and not writing the things i bury the most. i say i hate people, but i really just hate the fact that i do.  i hate how reliant, or independent, i am towards people depending on who they are. i hate the way i am and the way i can be. i'm sorry if you're reading this. i hate that you're actually listening to me bask in this type of self-pity. some things are better left unsaid, but others just boggle down a mind that is already halfway there