For now in the bad bits I should cover your eyes...

The day flew on by yesterday.

I suspect it had something to do with me sleeping until 11 a.m.
But I suspect it had more to do with going to bed at 7 a.m.

I went back to my apartment after finishing a ton of homework and ended up writing a song as I watched the sun come up.

Lack of sleep does something amazing to the creative mind. At least, for me, it clears my head in a way that taps me into the creative force of the universe. It's the poor man's pot, and I'm relatively sure it's safer on the braincells.

This has been the week that I got the least sleep of my life, yet I have never felt more creative in my lifetime.

As I surf through some photos of a current crush on Facebook, it hit me how narcissistic our generation is.
How much of our waking hours are spent looking at ourselves? Looking at each other?

Appearance is nine-tenths of the law.

I'm certainly not criticizing humanity, as a part of me loves this brave new world.
How else would I get to drool over her?

And this revealed something about me.

All my life, every girl I said I loved I actually didn't.
I was in love with a thought inside my head.
I was in love with an idea.
I'm elated yet terrified that I hold idealism aloft so much so that few women can exceed the beauty and complexity of my own thought.

I amuse me. And I suppose this is a problem. We amuse ourselves to death.

I think I'll know love when I finally care less about myself than I do about her. What I mean to say is, I will know her when my mind forgoes its idealism and chooses to fixate on her and know her, as she will be more beautiful than the thoughts between my ears.

She will be poetry, music, and wine.

But I write it as an observation to make myself aware of a system of which I daily take part.

For many, time spent with the people is something to be sought after.
People loathe loneliness.


I adore it. Desire is only fun when you're desirous. As soon as a baby gets what it is crying for, it's right back to searching and loneliness. So I have grown fond of this old feeling, because I suspect nothing this side of death is ever going to fully complete me in the way I might want it to.

Is that depressing? Maybe. A lot of things still make me content. Happy, even.
But I have grown this belief in opposition to my nature, which makes me believe I could grow to love just about anyone, which I felt cheapens love.
So loneliness and I have learned to get along.

It helps me to hone who I am, what I am, and who I wish to be.
Time spent with glorious, blissful solitude.
For me, solitude is time spent creating, bleeding thought to paper, tethering ideas to the real world.

Solitude is where I plant the seed of thought that blooms and grows into my life's work.