I cannot find a topic to write about tonight because I sit here in the comfort of my bed too overwhelmed with everything I could write about. I am disenchanted with everything while at the same time so intrigued by everything around me that I could just go back and forth teasing myself with each idea for hours and hours that nothing could get done. Not that writing is really getting anything done except getting a few sore feelings out of me, but it does seem to be a good outlet for people like myself.
Sometimes I wonder if I'll get to find people who are like me in the way that they cannot really make their minds on things regarding life because there are so many perspectives and things to learn that making an assumption on life is difficult and would be rather immature to do from such a blind standpoint. I can't be the only person to recognize this, and perhaps it is rare at a young age, but why should that matter? It frustrates me when I hear the saying "maturity comes with age" because it isn't really true. I prefer the term "experience comes with age" because I've met quite a few adults who have children's mindsets. A lot of people are sheltered and just assume and never quit being so superficial.
I don't really know where I am going with this right now, because honestly my mind is running so quickly it is rather difficult to type one sentence on the page. I don't like writing using so many first person singular pronouns but I end up doing that anyway because I'm selfish and egotistical. But I know that at the same time I am at least attempting to be empathetic and relatable because I try to keep myself from writing about myself all the time.
I have all the right in the world to do that, and I know that. But at the same time, I feel guilty. I really, really don't want to be selfish... But I don't think anyone wants to be selfish. Selfishness is just a facade, a mask for insecurity and sadness.
I am sorry for being all over the place, but unfortunately, my mind wanders a lot when I have a lot of energy. So I'll just write a poem. Or a haiku, or a limerick. I don't know yet.
Being a girl of failed descent
It seems life could never relent
From harshness on an innocent
Child, whom not heaven sent
Nor hell send to represent
But came from the earth to repent
For the sinner's advent
And the saints resent
How this child was never meant
To cause this great change of event
And now she shall begin an ascent
To whatever extent
She may achieve at the present.
