Titles are for dickheads.

I have nothing to say. By the end of this, you'll probably realise I'm just talking a pile of sh*t. I should have a topic of some sort to talk about. But I can’t for the life of me find anything to say. I just want to write. Write. Nothing to point out, to make you think. Nothing to tell a story about. Haha.

Too many thoughts buzzing through my mind. A thousand thoughts per minute. Constantly reappearing, changing morphing into something else. So unpredictable. Unpredictable. Tell me something, let me think; dwell on it for a while. Ask me what I think about it, expect the unexpected. Too many thoughts buzzing through my mind. Yet my mind is clear.  Thoughts become white noise to me. I'm just living. Living. Living in my own reality. Angry at the imperfections of the world, which make it perfect. Anger is white noise. I'm just living. Living. Reflecting on the past, simultaneously looking to the future.  I'm not in the Now. Yet my flesh is. My body is. My presence is. My mind is in some alternate reality. Perfectly happy. Perfectly Happy. Phased out. Passed out. Unconscious. Asleep. Awake. Confused.

Angry. Frustrated. Annoyed. At what? I can't even say. I want to live. But I'm living. I want to experience. Yet I'm already experiencing.  Picking out holes in an imperfect perfect world. Move! I'm stuck. Moovveee!! I'm stuck! Moovvvee! I'M STUCK! There's no where to go but here. Patiently waiting for life to get a move on. Living in the future. Living in the past. But not Now. Now is good. Now is all you have.

Clear your mind. Stay. No thoughts but existence. Stay. No worries. No f*cking worries.

Stay. Just stay in existence. Embrace. Live. 

Scream. Let go. Do something.

Be happy.

Angela x