Why does a person let another person determine whether or not they're going to make it through to the end of their life or prematurely off themself? I don't know. I don't ever truly know. I feel like it's kind of a madness shared together, not so much folie a deux but just a kinship.
When I stare at my wrists, my forearm for too long, it brings up feelings. Not so much memories but feelings. I yearn, I thirst for things I have tried to fix but have left buried because what else do you do when it's going to be perpetually broken?
Sometimes, when I stare long enough at my forearms, I can make out the scars I left there so long ago. So many scars that took so long to heal. All the scars I thought disappeared. But they never truly disappear do they? They lie dormant under the skin, blending in until that one day when you accidentally look their way and realise they were always there. Nothing ever leaves.
I love coke but I don't drink them as much as I'd like to. The only beverage I indulge myself with is coffee (albeit all kinds of coffee and sometimes tea) otherwise my liquid intake mostly just includes good ol' plain water.
I found out recently how much thinking of children and the idea of a family in the future upsets me. I never want that for myself nor have I ever envisioned it for myself unless by accident in the form of a nightmare. To be honest, it was never like I thought I'd make it that far in life. How am I already here? Who makes it past the age of 17? Not me. At least I'm not supposed to.
Do you think the birds ever get blinded by how bright the sun shines in a summer day? I wonder about that all the time. Maybe birds shit on people because they cannot see anything in the daylight. I sympathise because my eyes are so sensitive to sunlight it drives me crazy.
Sometimes I get upset when I realise there are worlds out there that I have never and will never explore thanks to my limited language skills. I speak only 2 languages fluently and that has never and will never be enough. There are times when I think and voice out how I cannot wait to be 60 years old and be the master of 8 languages at least but then I come down from my castle in the clouds and realise that I may not make it that far. Making it to 22 is an achievement that ought to be celebrated, but who'd the celebration be for? It never was anyone's intention for me to make it this far. Shit sure as hell wasn't my intention.
Isn't it funny that the moment you were born, you start to die?
P.S. 'yellow paint' in my title is reference to Van Gogh's relationship with yellow paint. Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought that would make happiness be inside of him. Nevermind the fact that eating paint is poisonous, I feel like he had the right idea there.
P.P.S. I didn't re-read what I wrote so any grammatical or spelling errors are overlooked. This note is specifically for those of you who come here to read my words simply to criticise my writing skills. I don't have a blog to please you. I have it to please me. That is, if I can ever be pleased by my own writing.
