I'm a mess. A mass of coldness and words, straightened curls, stolen clothes and contrasting views. I can hardly talk. I can't sing nicely but I do sing alot. I like villains and warmth, hitting drums, writing books, drawing on bedroom walls and trying to distinguish dreams from reality. I don't like dusty houses or spiders or being cold. I question people..... relationships, in my mind. I fall in and out of obsession.
I have blues eyes and red scars, straight teeth that I grind in clubs and a strawberry shortcake that I smell for comfort. I love films and music and books and hugs. I miss my dad alot, evey day, and I wonder if he ever knew how much I loved him.
I cry alot and shout alot. I laugh all the time and embarrass myself to infinate proportions. I love my family and my friends but most of all I love my little brother.
I party alot. I work hard at my band. I romanticise reality to the point of dissillusionment and I rationalise emotions to the point of being harsh and uncaring.
I get carried away with myself. I have people round constantly and I go out on my own. I live a life that hasn't settled and I hope it never does. The unintentionally poetic ideal - I fulfill my potential on a daily basis in a way that most people are disinterested in.
I find the spectacle of success mundane and commmon.
I enjoy drawing knowledge out of people from whom I would not have expected it.
I take interest in the metaphysical and the visual and I enjoy the exceptionalism of the world, the struggle of reality. My personality, my views and my interests fluctuate in contradictive extremes.
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