(no subject)
I'm in, for lack of a better... word... a 'losfer' mood. Most people don't know that term, but probably know the mood. But I'm not in the mood to go and describe what it's all about. But the people who know it, know it, and know what it's like. Sort of blank, I suppose. Maybe a little bit of apathy. And here I am, talking about what I said I wasn't gonna talk about. All while looking blankly out the window, at trees, not really moving, but leaves softly blowing in the wind. And the fading green-ness of the the leaves. And the near chartreuse of some other leaves. At the olive/dark green of the evergreens. At the white metal of the shed, and the red rust on the top of it's roof. At the moss growing on the walnut tree.
Stream of thought writing, I suppose. New paragraph fits, maybe. The shape of the trees, so familiar, yet so new. So fascinating. I wish I could describe each and every crook, but I lack the descriptive capabilities to do so. A picture's worth a thousand words. Guess I'll have to make a picture sometime. Scratching at my ear now. And now back to typing. Or lack thereof. The wind is picking up a little bit. Moving the leaves more. Not enough to move the trees yet, but for a few small branches.
I feel like going out and walking. Experiencing what's left of the day while it's still cloudy, before it clears up into a bright shiny blue day. I love cloudy days. Looking at the sky this morning, outside of Ferrell's Nut House, I have to wonder how anyone can ever ask me why I prefer cloudy days to sunny ones. Cloudy days are... *meant* to be looked at, experienced from outside. Stared at, with ever increasing wonder.
Let the thoughts come, I say. Popping my neck, without the use of my hands, only getting a pop or two. Now popping the rest with the use of my hands. Popping the joints inbetween my shoulder blades, solely by moving my shoulders. Looking at my fingers typing, knowing when I make an error before I know I've made it. Looking at the scratch on my finger, not sure where I got it. Rubbing my eye-lid/brow. Adjusting a few eyebrows. Thinking about the term eyebrow. Thinking it means something it doesn't. Thinking about the term eye lashes, knowing it's not what I mean by eyebrow. Knowing everyone is going to interpret that sentence not as it was meant, and not wanting to change it, regardless. Not wanting to delete anything I've written, besides minor typographical errors. Listening to Agalloch's "The Mantle". On track 3 right now, 'Odal'. Waiting for tracks 7 and 9, 'A Celebration for the Death of Man', and 'A Desolation Song', respetively. Straying away from stream of thought writing, and realizing it, and then coming back to it.
Making a new paragraph because I feel like it. And that's all the reason I need. And that's the truth. Tired of having to explain my reasons. Especially when my reasons for wanting to do something are "not good enough". Fuck that. All my reasons have to be for something that affects only me is good enough for me.
It means something to me, and not to them. I'm not doing it for them, I'm doing it for me, because it feels right. Like that's how it's supposed to be. Like that's... predestined, but from a past tense. Like how is was supposed to have *been*. And you feel you have the right to question my REASONING?? Fuck you. I hate you, but I don't hate you. I'm mad at you. Want you to realize that if it's your support you want to give, don't question my motives, or what I want to do, especially if I already know I want to do them. Just fucking SUPPORT ME. Accept what I'm doing, and the choices I make in my life. Don't treat me like a half child/half adult. Give me all of my responsibilities, or none. I'm not a little 6 year old, who can't think for himself enough to not shit in his pants. I'm 18 years old. I know I have a lot to learn about this world yet, but there's a lot I do still know. And I know that rushing into things head on isn't gonna do me any good. So I'm not. I'm sitting on the sidelines, making sure that this is what I want to do. And when I know that it's right, I'll know. It's not some god damned set amount of fucking time. It doesn't matter how much time has already elapsed since I started considering whether it was really right for me or not. What matters is the fact that I have been considering it. And that I won't stop considering it. Not until I'm sure of what I think I'm sure of now. Whether I be sure that I'm right, or sure that I'm wrong; not until I'm sure. And that's all you need to know. I don't need to convince you of anything. So why won't you let me make my own choices?? Especially when they're only mine to make. Or only mine and the one person it concerns, who isn't you??
...
I suppose that ends this. The first few paragraphs were just random babblings. The last two were a vent about someone that isn't going to read this. And only one person who is going to read this will understand, at least at the time of my writing this. I suppose this might seem rather odd to most people reading this, not used to me doing this sort of writing. Honestly, neither am I. But maybe I'll do more of it. It seemed somewhat effective. It got this much out of me, I suppose. That's all for now, folks, I think.