The bravest thing I've ever done Was to run away and hide But not this time, not this time And the weakest thing I've ever done Was to stay right by your side
People don't pay enough attention to other people. Not at all. Most everyone is nice, and friendly and very worthy of being a friend, they just get so caught up in life they don't have time to say "hello" or ask you how you are, or if they do ask you that- all they want is a classic conversation: Hi! How are you? Good, you? Good, thanks Why does no one talk more than that. I want to talk to someone. Really talk. Lame surface stuff sucks. But what would we talk about? The Oscars? (which were great, by the way) Pops? Swimming? Nothing that matters. Maybe that's why I'm so afraid of leaving- I don't know enough about people yet. High schoolers never talk to eachother about anything of significance. Maybe it's just me. But really, I don't have anyone who I think would listen. Really truly listen. They'd be really nice about it, I think, but they would take the new information and do anything with it. And I don't even know what I would say. Maybe I should just blame my moods on hormones. That's what we're learning in biology.
Seriously, though, why do I write day after day in this blog? For me, I would like to think, so that when I'm old I can look back and re-live my high school years. Or at least get a glimpse. And because I like recording things. It's not subconsciously for other people, is it, so they can understand me? Because I don't write enough for anyone to know me. I write frivolous stuff, which is fine by me. It's not supposed to be entertaining or meaningful. All I want is for someone to care. And there are so many wonderful friends, and it's not that they're not good friends, I just want to touch someone. "I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something." Good movie, Crash is. Won Best Film last night- hooray.
Plastic stars glow-in-the-dark on the ceiling when she tosses in her sleep and the moon shines upon her glistening face Curtains, that should have been lowered to block the blinding morning sun, stay open and let the moon peer in on her dreams Of poetry and flocks of geese
