Well, it’s hard to live a balanced life when music isn’t what it was before, and when movies are not here for your pleasure, but for work purposes, so at least I have my make up on and I guess that could be considered a win.
Starting with last year, I became somewhat obsessed with make up and other girly stuff like that, so I managed to gather quite the collection. But this collection isn’t worth your time or my words, so I’ll just leave it here, for bragging purposes only.
I hate how this time of the year makes me feel so weird, sometimes it feels like spring, but other times it just feels awful. I am swimming in a sea of mixed feelings and I’m not sure if I like it or not. Mostly, I hate it, but one can never be too sure.
I find it hard to come up with a conclusion, so I guess today words are meaningless.
It’s easy to fall apart. Easy to get lost, it’s easy to eat out the rust and the darkness inside you.
It’s easy to let things and people devour you, and it’s easy to let it all flush you down with just one bat of lashes.
Sometimes there is no road, no end and no beginning, no bargain for your soul. Sometimes, no blanket is in sight and no helping hand but yours.
But your hand is broken, is bloodied, it has no power to hold you, to support you. Your hand was lost in a battle long forgotten, and the battle was already won by the other side when you started fighting.
Success is not your middle name, nor is happiness. People use you, your body and your feelings, and you feel fine with that. You are numb to everything that’s happening around you.
You help that people will eventually run you down, that they’ll use you to point they won’t care anymore. You’re kinda expecting that. You’re kinda wishing that. And you feel fine with that.
I keep writing letters to myself and publish them. I know what I want to say to me, but I keep telling it to you. It’s easier that way, because it’s almost a promise made to the world.
One day, I promised myself to learn how to love and how to be good and how to be a beautiful human. I promised I’d be everything that other people were not to me.
27 years have passed and I still don’t know how to love. I’m not good and I am not a beautiful human. I am still scared of people and secretly I wish I was dead, because it would be simpler.
I don’t hate you people, I just don’t care. I’m not sure how to love, but I’m hella good at not caring. It’s easy and clean and it lets me sleep at night. My mind does not bother with weird thoughts of unfitting.
I’m not bad, but I’m not good either. I try to act on impulses, I try to help as much as I can and I’m not the vengeful type, yet I’m not good. My existence does not touch people and I feel perfectly fine with that. In my book, this equals not being good, but I think I might be wrong.
I am not a beautiful human. There’s no denying that, because I don’t like my fellow people and I’m scared of them. I try not to be too visible, but I also try to not be the bug people think I am. I like solitary confinement with music and a blanket, I don’t like crowds, gossip and mean people, but I also don’t feel at home inside close knit groups of benefactors.
I just don’t belong here, and I’m afraid to find out where I do belong.
Rivers go through me, as if tomorrow is brought with one single green wave. For me, this green has no color, maybe it’s white, or maybe it’s black, I don’t really care. My senses are numb, my desire is weak. Everything that I knew is not and everything I’ll never know will still be here long after I’m gone.
I hear you see the sunset. You like to take it in and smell it on your lips. I have no recollection of these things, and life is bitter as is cold and time has no meaning here.
I suck at life. I am mean and obnoxious and I suck at life. I trip, I drop things, I ruin stuff. How can I go on like this?
I need a life bumper, cause I hate life, I hate running into people and I’m not good at breathing either.
If I were to list out all the things I’m not good at, I’d never run out of things to say. But I’m not here to brag – I’m here to complain.
Feelings are important, or so I am told. People care about things and about people and sometimes they are just like little impatient kids, waiting for good things to happen.
I know I couldn’t be more vague than that, but believe me, vague is my middle name (kinda; actually it is Mihaela), so bare with me.
Promises come to me in different forms. They sometimes look like happiness and flowers and trust, and sometimes they look just like sadness, tears and rain. Promises can’t keep you warm, but the hope that they’ll become reality might. They can’t feed you or heal your broken heart, but they can shine a different light on things you thought to be irremediably lost.
Promises are both the best and the worst things to happen when everything goes south.
Tonight before you fall asleep
I run my thumb across your cheek
Cry ‘cause i’m here to wipe your eyes
I know I made you feel this pain
You gotta breathe, we’ll be okay
Cry ‘cause i’m here to wipe your eyes
Please don’t lose your faith;
Don’t worry ‘cuz I’m here to keep you safe
I promise if you let me see your face
That I won’t let you down, I won’t let you down
Today I took the road back to Memory Lane, reading old poems and stories and old articles about the music in my life.
Back in 2008, when I started this blog, I never thought I’d go this far with it. Actually, I took a break from blogging and writing all together, in 2010, if my memory serves me right.
It’s funny reliving all these thoughts and feelings and I find it amazing that the same songs still move me.
May 26th was the first day I ever wrote something on my own, not a forum run by idiots. So this year I will celebrate this little thing called blog, since it’s its 5th anniversary. 5 is also my favorite number and my lucky number.
I’ll go back to reading my memoirs. I’m on page 24 out of 32, but I started reading it backwards.