Brain Stew.

The title of this post is a Green Day song. It's out of the ordinary for me. As is everything else.

I want to sleep but I feel like I'll lie awake in agony.

My life is a lie. Cliche, but incredibly true. I hate it. I hate everything. I hate myself for hating everything. I just hate myself.

Life is a diversion. I want to live but I could say this a million times and not get anywhere. I am upset and in need of a pathetic crying rant. I am pathetic. What is my problem. It's awful. I'm vain. I'm horrid. I want to sleep. I want to just go away. Float. Crawl inside of myself and watch my soul die a little bit. I feel like it'd be awful, yet therapeutic. I want to write. I want to pathetically put words on the page and proclaim things that make no sense. I want to dance. I want to be good at something in life. I wan to much. I have enough. Enough to make most people happy, I'd say. But I guess I'm not most people, I'm just an annoying girl. With extravagant wants. "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" just got stuck in my head. In that beautiful gospel sound. It's beautiful, really, but oddly out of place here.I can't stand my brain. It never stops. I never have peace in my mind. It's awful. I want to not think for two seconds. What does mental quiet sound like? Does it even exist? I can't say for sure, because it never happens to me. I'm always turning things over in my mind, and I don't like it so much.

I am unhappy.In this place where I am. So unhappy. But that's wrong to say. I am a horrible, awful, no-good person!! I can't stop! I can't!

I want somebody. ANYBODY to see this and slap me. Hard. I'm insane.

Imagine.

Imagine for me.

It's 1956. (I don't know why. It just is.)

There's a chrome and green pleather dining set in a small kitchen with yellow walls and green curtains.

And that's all there is to it.

But it's lovely, isn't it?

Lovely...

And imagine.

A field of wildflowers.

Like you spilled your paintbox onto the canvas. Imagine.

Look at how, from afar, the colors swirl into each other.

But up close, in detail, each one is its own being.

Like the human race itself.

It's like a valley of flowers.

Think on it.

It's true.

And it's odd, and it's great, and it's lovely, and it's lame.

It's everything.

This is nonsense, isn't it?

I can see myself becoming one of those writers who starts off sane and nice and ends up going insane and hermit-like for most of their life. It could happen. It just might. Or it's happening now. Or it's just teenage silliness.

But I doubt this. For I may be silly, but I am mentally stable. Indeed.

Mr. Tambourine Man.

Yeah. I can't think of anything else to say.

Other than: I'll live how I want to. I'll dance in the rain. And I'll always be weirder than I'd like.

But what is weird but a glorified normality?

I feel like I'd be able to drive people to distraction with my ponderings.

So. I bid thee farewell. I wish upon thee, dreams of the sweetest kind. And I hope you will all see me as sane.

Goodnight. I love you.