When I feel like I feel today, all I want to do is write.
I write to get this out; to let things go, in hopes that I’ll feel better.
But do I really feel better? Maybe it just makes things worse. Because what if the things I am writting about were meant to be read by certain people or maybe these things I write were meant to be heard?
If these words I write never get read or never get heard, is it really worth writting? Do I or should I feel better about it all?
I should feel better.
Because no matter if it gets read or not, or the right people hear it, its still out there somewhere. It’s not stuck in my head.
It’s not lost in my mind.
I don’t exactly understand them.
At some point in our life time, we will all love. Even if its loving our pet or loving our family. Whether it be loving someone else or loving your best friend. When you love, you feel it. Deep inside. Whether it be a small knot in your stomach or a burning fire in your chest, you feel it. You know it. To me, loving another human being for everything they are and all their capabilities, is the most beautiful kind of love. A rare kind of love. The kind of love we all take for granted. The kind of love very few of us actually understand.
That’s why one of the saddest things about love is how fragile it is.
The fact that it can be thrown around: I love that. I love this. I love her. I love him. I love you.
Love has lost its meaning. You don’t love Justin Bieber. You don’t love chocolate. You LOVE your mother. You LOVE your father. Your wife. Your husband.
The fact that love has lost its meaning makes it very difficult for someone to deviate between the real love and idealistic love. Which is which? How will you know when its real?
All nightI’ve been reading stories about people not feeling worth; not feeling good enough for anyone; about people wishing their life was different; wishing that someone would just care; that someone would just love them.
I’ve been there.
I’ve often thought about what it would be like. How people would react? If they would care? Who all would show up at my funeral? What would they say? Would they cry? Would they miss me?
Every one that knows me, knows I’m not really happy.
I’m loud, obnoxious, I laugh too much, and I make jokes that no one thinks are funny, but at the end of the day, when I’m lying in my bed, all alone, with nothing but the darkness to tun to - I’m crying, praying things get better, praying someone will care, wishing for a change, hoping for a miracle.
I’m not selfish.
I’m still here aren’t I?