Everytime I look back at things I've written I feel like kicking myself in the ass for half of them. It seems like everything can shift so rapidly, that things you say one day don't hold true the next, though you really did mean it when you said it. I'd say it was interesting to look back at my short life span and see how different things are from year to year or even month to month, and times even day to day. However I cannot state that this life has been interesting, because interesting is a word you use to avoid the insanely complex workings or things...unless of course you use it to avoid being offensively blunt, which I myself am guilty of. Life is something that though I have previously exhausted the existing adjectives, somehow is utterly indescribable. At times I look at this disorded chaos of events and comings and goings and pray, perhaps to no one, that there indeed is a system of destinies and fates. At other times I am content in what I have done for myself, though this feeling comes rarely, and I choose it not to be ripped away from me for the purpose of some greater good. Still at other times I am content to exist in a world that is not my own, and at times I can stay there for weeks.
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