I feel like a sponge, or a bucket. I absorb and fill up with my thoughts and emotions throughout the day, and just hold them until no one is around and i can squeeze and pour them out into this journal, and get ready for another day of the same. and another. and another.

i like to think i'm an idealist. a loner. deep. mysterious. i like to keep this romanticized image of myself in my head to comfort me when i feel alone or unhappy. its easier to think of things that way than deal with problems or bad feelings and their sources. its easier to sit here safe in my room and dwell on things, writing on and on and on until i wring them out of my head and don't have to think of them so much anymore. but then the same thoughts and problems come up again and again. because i never really deal with them.

sometimes i think i'm bipolar or have some disorder. maybe i'm just fickle.

but please. me? fickle. there are cosmic forces at work here! i can't control myself. there's no way out.

but i'm startin to realize that maybe there is. maybe by getting over self-pity and this strange subconcious desire to be in some kind of romantic pain and my creation of my own drama in my life, maybe then things will make more sense. maybe then i feel more comfortable saying what i want to say. talking to people when i need to, and doing what i need to do. i'm going to work on that.

and i'm going to keep writing here.

just in a different way perhaps.

goodnight :)