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trying to fill the void, with the same songs on repeat, the dust on my shelves, like rust on my messed up self. i broke my phone, again,...
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my head is a hive of words that won't settle down.
It is hardly writing,
its more like screaming
-virginia woolf
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just another random human being, trying to break free of the chains that I unconsciously forged myself, assuming it was somebody else who pushed me inside this cage.
this cage, of wild thoughts, floating all around.
"words do not express thoughts very well. they always become a little different immediately after they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish."
perhaps I wish to be the distorted image that does make a little sense, not necessarily to everyone.
~a raging dysphoria, onism that burns
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