Blur.
As it would seem, boredom does not know its limit. Despite mid-terms and mass studying, I find myself unfocused and wanting to sort unmentionables through prose. Do what you're best at, I suppose.
To…
I’m Gaara. My reflection is ordinary, though still splotched by easily earned bruises. My thoughts are complicated. It is the wasteland known as 311 Lysgar Apartment 8 that I inhabit, a darkly lit room cast behind a door decorated with permanent makeup handprints.
Ironic you know these things already, though I can’t clarify the truth of that statement.
I’m also the youngest of three, all of whom you familiarize yourself with on a daily basis. Temari mocks you on occasion, but I think she loves you in a way particular to her. And Kankurou is the epitome of your soul, the one you know best.
I still haven’t figured out how I fit into this equation other than memories of tie-dye hair and chubby, grabbing fingers.
I’m nineteen, not a child. But that might be the problem since I won’t say anything and the quiet phrases you throw are punctured with riddles. Possibly forgotten as I stow away in my own corner of the world with nothing.
Somehow, it just becomes another day in the land of confusion where words miraculously fail me.
At least I was honest.
From…
What a pointless thing to be doing when I should be writing essays.
Something seems off to me. It might be the number of people I've run into as of late playing with my brain. Or maybe I'm just paranoid.
To…
I’m Gaara. My reflection is ordinary, though still splotched by easily earned bruises. My thoughts are complicated. It is the wasteland known as 311 Lysgar Apartment 8 that I inhabit, a darkly lit room cast behind a door decorated with permanent makeup handprints.
Ironic you know these things already, though I can’t clarify the truth of that statement.
I’m also the youngest of three, all of whom you familiarize yourself with on a daily basis. Temari mocks you on occasion, but I think she loves you in a way particular to her. And Kankurou is the epitome of your soul, the one you know best.
I still haven’t figured out how I fit into this equation other than memories of tie-dye hair and chubby, grabbing fingers.
I’m nineteen, not a child. But that might be the problem since I won’t say anything and the quiet phrases you throw are punctured with riddles. Possibly forgotten as I stow away in my own corner of the world with nothing.
Somehow, it just becomes another day in the land of confusion where words miraculously fail me.
At least I was honest.
From…
What a pointless thing to be doing when I should be writing essays.
Something seems off to me. It might be the number of people I've run into as of late playing with my brain. Or maybe I'm just paranoid.