Sunday, March 26, 2017
Another journal style entry; always unspecific, but hopefully alluding enough to apply to most psyches.
I'm a bit full of myself. I have no issue admitting it; it's a trait of mine. I'm not too terribly vain, besides my outward implications - I enjoy the flashing lights of life. The natures, which I so often have rambled on about, are absolutely not below me. Although I cannot deny my desires for the world, I'd settle with little were a spirit filling the void me instead. I'm imperfect; but I have a voice pestering the back of my skull. His whispers are faint, but I seem to understand the gist; perhaps this is merely the shedding skin of adolescence. Put frankly, beyond all motives with which I still must consider, I'd far rather peer into the eyes of nothingness than those aching to peer likewise into mine.
Wandering alone on the chilled sidewalks is a peace I've yet to equate. Watching the airplanes far above glide smoothly past each star, displacing the tinge of burning leaves in their inky ripples as I stalk about hundreds of feet below... it is a loneliness that I hold far more vehemently than any love.
Recognizing myself as my own born soul, rather than an amalgamation of traits I long ago hoped would promote myself as a familiarity, is a goal which I've procrastinated for years. As new beginnings are continually rolled out before me, though, I finally have found a proper time but take my introspection more personally. The nostalgic emptiness with which I have fallen so hard for is found, presently, within my own self. And, as is my own belief, the self encapsulates all that is, was, and can be. Perhaps my aforementioned pride is less a product of instability, more one of thought.
The rain falling, dashing through steam and splashing on the asphalt; it is beautiful. The thoughts that drip from an old faucet... wonderful. And though one day I do hope to find a concurrent being with which these peaces may exist, in the meantime, I peacefully levitate above an apocalypse of crashing waters. Ones of my own blissful disregard, and ones that will soothe in the far distances of a shadow. Self.