If You're a Bird, I'm a Bird Too...

I've been thinking a lot recently. I guess Stephanie was right about me. I guess maybe she was wrong. I am not so sure about anything anymore. I am so caught up in this odd sense of self un-worth that it consumes too much time. I don't think there's essentially anything wrong with me, nor do I believe that my life is all too terrible-- I would actually claim that I am happier than normal right now, but there's this heaviness that always comes back like a familiar friend that never seems to get the hint. 

Since school started I've been spending a lot of time alone, doing nothing when not involved in school activities. I grew pretty fond of the quietness after high school. I would rather go to cafes and sit and drink coffee and try to mull over things. I learned through this, that I really like coffee. It's a stimulant and it really gets your mind racing and your heart pumping.

So I'm back to figuring out why I'm bad at being me. I don't think I used to be like this. Maybe after me and Steph broke up I became this way-- or maybe not. I don't know. I've dated a girl seven out of the last ten years. I had serious relationships and I had not-so-serious relationships. Despite all of this, I don't think I've ever fallen in love. I think I would know if I was in love-- right? So it scares me to think that I couldn't fall in love. Maybe there's something wrong with me? Maybe I can't ever make someone happy? Maybe I am so unendingly unsatisfied with anyone, that I can't find the need to make them happy? I am only 20 years old, turning 21 in two months. I have so much time ahead of me, I am sure none of these thoughts will matter. But right now, by the nature of who I am today, I don't think I like being alone and I don't think I should be not-alone. I am a constant state of okay and not, based on what seemingly can't be found.

Getting into this relationship. I wanted to be more sentimental, I wanted to care less and remember more--so I stored things in a box and kept copies of photos and wrote everything that I could. I tried my best, tried to fix mistakes, tried to not be so bad anymore. I think I did okay, I think it all was much better than before, but I don't think it was right. I gave up so much of me I tried to get my fill and I liked this, I really did. I didn't doubt so much, I didn't get angry, and I didn't ever leave. 

But I guess that doesn't matter anymore.

Maybe I just I miss things. Because I miss a lot things in general. Who people were and who people weren't-- like junebugs stuck in molasses. I will always fall in love with the idea of who someone was, how deeply I cared for them-- at one point in some place, where only I knew their quirks, and they would smile at me with a warmness that only we knew. 

But, people have the right to change. To be so much worse, to be unlike themselves. They should be selfish and do things that disregards others. They should hurt people and care little about the effects of their actions. I don't know much, but I do know life's too unwarranted and unsightly for us to carry the burden of our decisions. So, I'll accept them for you and soak it all in.

So I'm meandering between day and night, trying to be fine with who I am again. As if my value was based on six people that never seemed to care.