Recently I've been lurking around blogs. Not my own (through yes I read through them occasionally and laugh at them) but other people's. And honestly speaking there in nothing in my blog that differentiates me from all those other blogs out there. Reading through a certain someone's posts I can honestly say, to another person these two blogs would look the same, read the same, and be of the same unimportance. It leaves an unpleasant taste in my mouth to say that I agree.
Many things I read, I understood. The feelings and the meanings behind the veiled words. I know because I've written the same damn things before.
This breezy vapid life
Has life ever been this hard?
In a way I am jealous because I see what I could have been in a different time, place, dimension. I see the songs I like now- and I see them appearing in the journal of another, long before my time.
I'm jealous because the experiences of another is something I can't experience... The words written are just words that are meaningless and generic but to the writer it holds a thought that hides inside. Who am I to barge in on memories of life before I knew the existence of you? Who am I to walk the younger years with you in the state of virtual suspension of time? Who am I to think anything I do now can affect you, or vice versa?
My mouth lies and denies vehemently that I'm okay and I'm fine; my mind tells me to shut up and get a hold of myself; my heart skips a beat with every paragraph I read and what I fear to see catches my eye. Yet I cannot stop, not even with unstable Internet connection, not even with assignments to do.
I don't know you at all and yet I feel a connection with you, a fellow blogger. It's possible that you may know of me- of me, that's the key word- but it's unlikely that you care enough to see this. For I am wrong and paranoid, and you're... not.
But I still don't like you, for selfish reasons.
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