Sometimes I am tempted to release my inner drama queen. I daydream of bottled black hair, heavy eyeliner, and an emanciated self. That image battles with the one I must own up to each day, crispy button ups and trousers with wrinkles forced flat and a tan that never seems to go away. On certain days it seems more logical to sit inside my cupboard like room and compose awful poetry, pretending that I live a tortured life. But I guess everyone is tortured by some part of their life, at least I don't really have to blame anyone else.
I find going to the gym ultimately more depressing than it should be. Some people seem to live their lives on a treadmill, others seem bound by the weights they lift. I'm not sure if its event the image-consciousness that bothers me, it's the concentration of emotionally unstable people in a very small space that makes me so uneasy. I begin to question my own motivations for being there. Maybe I'm trying to make myself feel better by comparison, imagining fake issues that these people must be dealing with so that my own don't seem so tragic and hopeless.
I don't really know sometimes. I'm not sure why I don't answer my phone or take the second to reply to an e-mail. I don't know what I am afraid of.
1 comment:
poetry is never awful if it means something to you, and i like your writing in here; i bet your good. your a good writer period. and take an ipod to the gym. thats what i do.
sexy.
oh if youd ever want to talk in a messenger, i got yahoo: plez2k@yahoo.com
and an aol one:
plez2k@hotmail.com
if your ever on.
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