Lately, I have been having trouble really grabbing ahold of my thoughts... I can still write enough words to fill pages, but it doesn't really feel like I'm going anywhere... the intense feeling people find in my writings of a few years ago just isn't around... Sometimes, I even just want to cry for no reason. I used to battle that by writing out my thoughts as quickly as I could. I guess I can try to just open up and do that.

I've been writing a lot of poems lately, as a result. A poem is shorter and I can concentrate on it... my attention span has really been suffering lately. I get distracted so easy. I guess it's my fault for setting so many things around myself to distract me.

I feel like I am struggling to find real meaning in my life right now. I don't know why I'm so hung up on needing real meaning in everything I do. I don't know why I can't just be happy with myself and my friends and what's going on around us. I have this need to feel like I am somehow touching more people than the ones I come into immediate direct contact with. I think maybe I do that some small amount, but for some reason I want to do more.

But anyway. I want to feel like I'm doing what I can to make myself and the people around me happy. I want to feel like I am investing in my future happiness and the future happiness of my loved ones, as well. I want to feel like the things I see that I think are magic really are magic. I want to be right about that.

I want to know that the future is bright, but for some reason I just can't let myself forget about all the evil around me. Haha. We had a discussion about whether or not evil exists the other day. I was on the "does not exist" side, and here I am using the word in a very real sort of context. That's the way it goes.

I am as meandering as ever, but now it feels like I really am going nowhere. Maybe the feeling of going nowhere is just a reaction to contentment. Maybe I am not going anywhere because I don't need to go anywhere. Maybe I have what I need right now and right here, and that's ok. Maybe it is. Maybe I can convince myself of that, and maybe we can all rejoice and hold our ankles and wait for what's coming to us. Woah.

I'd like to end these thoughts with a poem, since that's what I've been doing lately.

poor old you
looking at poor old me
and wondering
what the hell is that boy thinking?

You know what?
I wish I could tell you
what I am thinking
in a way that you might understand.

That might make us all happy,
if we could just talk and be chums.
But for some strange reason,
I just don't believe.

And you pound on my head
and drop letters in my box
and point your fingers at my sins,
And that makes you better than me.

Because I am a liar,
and I am a stink and a dog.
Poor old me
looking at poor old you.