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I even think of thinking when I think. It’s insanity. Well, that’s my opinion. What causes me to think? Is it because I’m lonely, and the only thing I can do is think?
I can’t tell the difference between my dream world, and my reality. Sometimes when I dream, it feels so real I can actually feel, see, taste, smell, and hear things. Like the time I was at this strange school. I remember seeing many stairs, and a tree growing on, or in them. I remember being with people, ones where the girls wear button down, white blouses, plaid skirts, knee-high socks, and Mary-Jane’s, and the guy’s wore black suits, that look as if they were going to church, or a funeral.
That tree was my favorite place to eat lunch. I reminisce sitting there, with my no-name, no-faced friends and eating ham sandwiches. Those sandwiches were disgusting: the ham was too salty, the bread was to dry, and there was nothing that could make the flavor better, like mustard, lettuce, or cheese. But I remember being really happy.
I also remember panic. I was running away from a teacher, because I wasn’t supposed to be there. I hated running away from that tree…in the fall, the leaves would plummet onto my lunch, each soft, brittle leaf delicately floating across my cheek and onto the ground. But I had to run. I didn’t belong there. I didn’t even know where I was.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget that dream. It felt so real, with it being surreal. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve seen that place before, maybe on television or something. I want to visit that place in real life now. Who knows, maybe in real life, it’s a library, or maybe a bank. Maybe in that dream, I was sitting on those steps contemplating how I was going to rob the bank, and then that day that I ran, I did rob the bank. I’m not sure if I was holding something while I was running, but people were chasing me, and I was under panic.
Most of the time, I hate dreaming. I don’t even know if I’m asleep or awake right now. I can’t help but to wonder whether or not I’m making everyone up as I go. Is dreaming my interpretation of life? It could be that I’m an orphan peasant still in the Middle Ages fantasizing about the future. Maybe I came up with the concept “Middle Ages.” It’s all just confusing to me.
Dreaming is only part of my life, like, maybe half. The other half is just thinking. I think mostly during summer. Maybe because the majority of my summer is sleeping, writing, drawing, and reading. I don’t usually hang out with anybody, so the only thing I can do is think.
Why do I think so much? I guess it is because I’m lonely. Even if I’m not lonely, it’s grown into a habit to think so much. But why? I really have no reason to think so much. It’s gotten so bad, that I think about worrying—I worry about worrying.
I just learn to deal with it. I think of thoughts as if they were my buddies. They’re always with me and I can’t get rid of them—so I just, deal with them. Yeah, I guess I could put it that way.
 XxX_Rainbow_Trivium_XxX · Sun Feb 14, 2010 @ 01:44am · 1 Comments |
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