"We Think It Is Self Pity"

I think they should start to make books, which in a way are sort of "look for me, I'm hiding", except instead of Where's Waldo? it would be Where's Jeff Mangum?. It makes total sense.

I also think that I should learn how to sew, so instead of going to the store and seeing dresses for $80 and buying them, I could make them myself for $20.

There is a bunch of holes in my head, and one of them is being plugged at the moment with an evil device I like to call a mobile phone. There really isn't much anything mobile about it though, seeing that it will stay very still if you leave it to its own business. No matter how many seconds, minutes, days, months, periods, decades, eras I spend watching cellphones, they seem to stay put when there is not human interference. Another way in which humanity disrupts the natural order of things. A phone would not be mobile (much less cellular!) were it not having some man, woman, or child moving it about in disorderly fashions.

People are strange. They think depression is the same everywhere, as if to say that in every house the clutter is exactly the same, the dust in the corner of the hall has all the same genetic DNA acquirement's that every other hallway is made out of. I don't know why every gray is the same exact shade, or every broken bone an equal cut. And when they do think to say that you are not acting in a normal way, they try and arouse happiness in you, or in anger tell you to get over it. Somehow when you say you don't know why your skin feels like it needs to be torn off, as if your muscles should be moving in every direction at rapid speeds not know to man, they disregard your lack of knowledge as disbelief. I don't have any fact in my emotions, so the faith in them means nothing. I don't know anything about any of this, other than what I've felt. I've never heard anyone talk like I feel, or claim to understand it. This enigma seems uninteresting, alone and silly in a world of suffering.

I'm just a dramatic poet, a quiet girl, a person in love that changes in the ways most people say you aren't supposed to change. I'm a variable, and yet one which lacks color or shape. I'm micro in comparison to the things around me. A weed in the ocean of a flock of flowers, but one that blends in. One that can't steal the fame or fire from the natural plants surrounding me.

Some days I don't even know that I'm writing, what I'm writing. Then again, it has been so long, words are just another friend I thought I knew, but it ends up I'm just an ignorant fool. Sometime I want to have it back, that time where I casually made love to all those words, apathetic to everyone else and their opinions of my compositions. I would type fast, slow, both sacred and nonchalant. Maybe that part of me is gone, or maybe I am better off this way. Writing is a passion, but it also needs to be taken care of, like a child. It can become rowdy and obnoxious, desolate and dry, starving or haunted. These are all my choices to make, and yet, if I truly think about it, they are nothing but reactions to everything I see, feel, touch, hear, want, know, taste, love, hate. Everything is.

Like this small amount of words, all my poetry seems randomly put together. Muck shoved into one pile. Colors being washed with darks and whites. Delicate tablecloths mixed with cotton t-shirts and blue jeans. I'm blunt, blatant, ugly and metaphorical. It is all a mess.

I'm just a wretch.