when i was a child, my life was empty. i tried to fill it with stuff i liked and liked to do, but the parts, even when put together, did not make a whole person.
i found stories, parts and tidbits from other people's lives, and i feasted on them. i filled myself with so many stories about other people, so many random things they would tell me, that i wouldnt need to fill myself with things about me.
i found people who loved to talk and labeled them as "friends".
i would sit and listen to all of their stories and expiriences, because I had forgotten how to have my own.
if i tried to tell you everything i do in a day, it would be filled with references to things other people tell me
music- they tell stories
books- they tell stories
my friends- they tell stories
and my head brings all these ideas from other people and mixes them together until theyre unrecognizable and calls the idea its own. all these expiriences get woven together from other's lives to create my life.
my thoughts are not my own
my words are not my own
my beliefs are not my own
my life is not my own
and i am still not whole
YOU ARE READING
Im depressed, srry
Randomdont read if youre prone to grammatical errors, depression, the like. if anyone wants me to mark this as mature i will, but the only thing to be wary of is sad thoughts i was gonna put humor for the genre, to be ironic, but i dont want someone who's...
