Feeling like you’re not good enough for someone is a very difficult feeling to lose. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not.
I forget this outlet exists sometimes. I get too caught up in my head or my music to care enough to transfer those thought here in text form.
I gave up on that private journal thing for anyone keeping up with this. Someone is keeping up with this. I’m not depressed.
I keep finding ways to tell myself I was never good enough for her. It’s not true. I don’t think it’s true. Knowing the truth doesn’t really change this kind of feeling, though.
I should find either a way to stop thinking completely or start believing the truth.
I didn’t figure it out (duh).
I think I just figured it out.
I’m not depressed.
Will I win or lose if I go or if I stay? It doesn’t matter. I don’t know why, but it’s really hard for me to give up. Zora Neale Hurston has a quote about time, questions, and answers. I would like answers. Do I deserve them though? I ask rhetorical questions frequently.
I’ve been really sad lately. Articulating thoughts here is dangerous, though. Maybe that’s why I’ve been writing so much music recently. Who deserves to be happy? Happiness is either fleeting or not real. I haven’t decided yet. Mostly because I don’t really believe I know what it is. But do you? Probably not. What I mean is we can all have our own answer for something, for happiness, and as long as it works it’s fine. That doesn’t make it right. I’m actually not concerned with being right, I don’t know why I said that. My own answer would be cool. Maybe something that isn’t all that tangible. My own answer, lol. I sound like a dork.
Some time in December, I tweeted something about losing my soul. I couldn’t sleep that night. Shortly after I wrote that, I found this song. I’m saying “some time in December” like I don’t remember the date, day, time, or what I was doing the moment I felt that way.
Feeling lonely doesn’t mean you’re alone.
I’ve been writing poetry. Err, I was. A lot in December. The rhyming kind. It’s difficult, it’s fun. It’s a new way for me to say things that I need to express. That’s what I’ve decided; I need to express things, create things, or else it just stays with me and dies. It’s a lot less “freeing” and “liberating” than TV makes it seem, but it helps me view my thoughts from a slightly different perspective. Soon I hope to put these things I’ve been creating out so other people can enjoy or ignore them. I’m interested in knowing if other people relate to what I’m thinking. That’s a part of my definition for art, I suppose. It’s become really easy to just … write. Just in general. I’ve been going back and forth between being super detailed and just putting a lot of thoughts or experiences into a smaller context. Like this:
I’ve got forty dollars saved up so far.
Only one other person should know what that means. They probably will never know this exists. I shouldn’t say that. They should know this exists. I’d like them to. I started saving up the money the night I found that Childish Gambino song. It’s easy to feel as if you don’t have a place in the world you’ve created in your head. Or maybe that you don’t deserve to have the place you currently occupy or want. I’ve moved away from the former, but I’m not quite at “I don’t deserve this.” Like … an answer. To be deserving of an answer, or rather, to feel you deserve an answer says a lot about yourself. I can’t decide how it would describe the entity you desire the answer from. I don’t want to think negatively about it either way. I’m not rambling, am I?
I’ve gotten to spend time with my sisters this past week. My sister Sarah was in town and my oldest sister’s daughter, my niece, celebrated her birthday recently. Being around them cheered me up. I don’t mean to make it sound as a crutch for my enjoyment. I’m always happy when I’m around them, though. They’re really special. My brothers too.
I’m not depressed.
Who deserves to be happy?
I’ve accepted I’m crazy. The cute and popular crazy, though. Not the clinical ‘I was hit by lightning and now masturbate in Starbucks’ crazy.
I really like to create. Music, poetry, stories; I’m learning that there are fewer differences in creating than I think we tend to believe, understand. I am a saxophonist, I write music that is inevitably going to be labeled “jazz” (or not, whatever). I also like to sing and write poetry and make people laugh. When I was a kid, I would imagine myself as a character of my favorite television shows. I would dream I was the person creating my favorite songs. If you have the imagination to create something, don’t let yourself reduce that idea. It doesn’t need to conform. It just needs to exist. If you truly believe something should exist, or should happen, or should be, it will. It might not happen quick enough to see it. It may not happen when you need it. Maybe you’ll need help. But nothing happens unless you decide it will happen.
Enough is a lot.
Still thinking about f o r e v e r , even now. I think I wrote a song about it a few weeks ago.
What kind of love doesn’t hurt this bad? What kind of love don’t feel this way?
Ever since I hit my head and got that concussion, when I cry, I get this really weird sensation in the front of my head. It doesn’t hurt… It feels kind of heavy, but it’s almost soothing. I feel that right now, but I haven’t been crying.
As I look around… Your eyes outshine the town, they do.