Eating out of boxes, and sleeping in others beds. Life seems to enshroud a mystery that I cannot detect. Nothing is substantial anymore, food has less flavour, and I left some things back in that Maylands house that I value... Like my heart for instance...
And then I think, in a moment of confusion: No.
My heart is not there, it is somewhere there in a future, somewhere else that I was looking to the future for. A potential to just be, and just be me.
Nothing works out. Everything in life is temporary... So why don't we all just charge ourselves everyday and spend our nights roaming the streets looking for as much fuck as we can; cause at the end of the day-- Those that use hearts loose, and those that ignore them win.
So fuck it. Fuck my feelings and fuck myself. It's all I have to do these days anyway, when everything in this room reminds of a time that I thought meant something. DELUDED.
Confused, and rambling. Like it makes any difference how I write these days, who on this Earth could possibly appreciate or understand anything that I write in such emotive, poetic and hopeless romantic tones... It'd be worth it if I gave a shit about worth anymore.
I have nothing and are noone.
I have lost my fangs again,
I am sad, and very lonely.
I cry and get very angry.
... And I have to retune my guitar.
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