Today, I did what I loved most doing.
I turned on the computer, and started writing like mad.
I haven't written in months. I don't know where that energy has gone. Was it spent working my butt off on SAs? Or was it mostly wasted on strumming the guitar, wallowing in self-pity, morbid songs playing in my head?
Why do we change? Why does everyone think that I've changed so much, from a depressing bookworm to a 'social butterfly' (as quoted from rachel)?
Have I really changed that much, without even realising it?
And, yeah, with a sense of bitterness and regret, I admit that I have.
I kind of missed the way I used to be. I miss those days when I would come home from school, and look and mope at the sea. And then I would drown myself in English Breakfast tea, trying in vain to write a song - I have no musical talent whatsoever.
I miss the way that I could be, the way I was. I could be grouchy and moody however I liked. I had a legible excuse. I was a pessimistic sadist, I could act however I liked.
And now? Who can even act like a pessimistic sadist anymore? People just walk by you, not really noticing you for what you are.
Cellophane. They think they see right through you.
And today, I take back what I lost. I hate not being myself anymore. I hate not having anyone to relate to.
And once more, my fingers fly over the keyboard, typing words, sentences, paragraphs. Once more, I bury my head in a book, ignoring the Click Five on the radio, ignoring the trashy magazine featuring Jessica Alba that lies on the sofa.
I want to visit Jessica's hostel. A completely unrelated topic, I know, but it's just what I want to do. I shall talk to her about it on Monday.
My fellow William-Moseley follower.