You can spend all your time trying to be angry and hate the world.
But the truth is…
… You can find a little bit of something to love in everything and everyone.
If you are just willing to try.
sometimes, when it is late at night, and I have no one to talk to, I like to talk to myself. Not in the creepy way. Only in my head. I spend my late hours debating my agendas. Weighing the pros and cons of every decision, every bit of information that my brain devoured. Often times it is a bother. It makes my insomnia about twenty times worse than it should be. And like on this occasion, where I am in a house full of family and everyone is sleeping, but I have so much on my mind that I can’t even fathom the thought of resting my weary eyes. My mind races a mile a minute to process everything that it can. I cannot possibly slumber at this hour, however unconventional this hour may be. I want too many things, and expect far too much. By the end of my day I am thoroughly disappointed. So disappointed that my mind abuses me. It pounds against the confines of my head. It writhes with anger and frustration at my lack of ambition. I spend my days studying and caring for the one part of me that lives and breathes. How can that not be enough? Why do I feel like I am lacking true stimulation?
Just the babble of an insomniac.
Empty are the dreams of the young. They devour the fiction that is fed by the world. They breathe the pollution and taste the sugary chemicals with strange satisfaction. The young grow up on poverty and the lie that is freedom. They dream of the famous, aspire to be their equal. Nothing in the world of the real affects their dreams. Their empty dreams. The thoughtless, shallow, innocent core of a make believe world. A hollow fantasy. Empty are the dreams of the young.
There is a quiet place in the darkest corner of my mind. In this place there are words. No pictures. Like a dictionary. These words are perfectly arranged to form a picture. These words are deep. This picture is a horrific depiction of beauty. Like the photo of a corpse. Hair so perfectly done, Cheeks as if they weren’t sullen and grey, Hands placed so peacefully at the pelvis. Like this body is still inhabited, and the soul slumbers within.
The darkest corner of my mind is darker than you may think.