I didn't intend to traverse these pages with my directly translated thoughts. Alas, my intentions are appearing more and more useless. Do you know why it's impossible to numerically arrange our every personal experience of happiness or fear or doubt? These feelings are stubbornly stored (it's certainly unlikely to ever locate where), and await expression by means of uniquely stimulating incidences. I am, therefore, as alone (not in the physical, obviously deducable sense) in this moment as I ever have been or ever will be. Is that foolishness? Can the sensation of passive solitude be categorized as an emotion?
I used to write often in a JOURNAL.. I've always refused to call it a diary. I think that's my tom-boy spirit speaking out. Or maybe it's the oart of myself that's always attempted to prove itself as "mature". I've never before more wished to shrink back into my youth. I know I'm still considered to be youthful at a mere nineteen, yet I feel so aged. Because my parents are so aged. I wish more than anything to see them young again. It frightens the shit out of me seeing them grow.. oldish. Wow, I got off track. That's my ADHD speaking out. Shut up, you unattentive spaz.
...And that's my schizophrenic side.
Anywho, my journal, yes, that's where I was. My journal is missing. I don't know where it is at any rate. I can't stand that I've lost so many of my writings. That's where most of my writing took place. So I suppose I took to writing my thoughts on random papers. Do you know how agitating it is to not know where something of such importance to yourself is?? My journal got lost when I got kicked out of my dorm last semester and they bagged up my shit, I was just hours late to retrieving it myself. Long story. But damn I do seem a trouble-maker, don't I? Well let me assure you.. "I don't go looking for trouble. Trouble usually finds me."
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