and all I wanna do is turn around.

Passing white daisies, taking turns Close the door, walk to the street Catching raindrops on your tongue And for a minute it all stops But it won't last man, just a passing moment gone.

- Rocky Votolato, White Daisy Passing

I know I have friends. People who talk back when I talk. It's just that sometimes I don't want to have to listen. I want to talk. And I want someone or no one to listen. It doesn't matter if no one listens. There's just something about talking to no one in particular, and yet to every living person in the world that makes blogging.

Peaceful.

I'm trying to see every face I pass. Trying to commit them to memory. Thinking about how quickly we forget them, about how quickly time takes them away from us. And soon, another day passes. If my life were a storybook, my plot just flatlined. I try to photograph each scene in my head, try to remember the shade of pink the sky was. Or how the buildings looked like worried giants against the crowded skyline.

But how difficult a task, when all we every get to worry about is what we haven't yet done. And I worry, though I know I shouldn't. And I worry for others, though I know they wouldn't have me do so. And I think about how stupid love is, and how many fools have fallen so. I hear about the adulterers, and the prostitutes and about the stupid butterflies in skinny starved stomachs. And I think to myself: why do people still believe in this shit.

I try not to judge.

And mind my own business. Besides, where have I the time? I'm too busy trying to be a student. Get good grades, leave them teachers beaming. Become a huge useless success. I know I'm a mess. But all I ever talk about is myself. How lame. I know I'm a mess. But I'd like to think I'm the mess you'd wear with pride.

Well, another day.

.