A mirage does two things--it appears and it disappears. I do the latter quite well but with my aforementioned complex, I think I'm inherently unable to do the former. So it's a thing of no use, right? To keep on disappearing in conversations, little gatherings and the like when hardly anybody realized you were there? It leaves me sad most days, to think that whatever I'm in is unchangeable because I've been clouded by the complex since I was five and I never got used to it.
It's hard to tell what I mean by this but I want to be a mirage.
I couldn't get into the specifics of what I'm referring to. I don't want to be assailed for admitting what I may or may not be going through, or what I may or may not want to get into. I could consider this a private journal and extensively type on every flipping thing about it because that's oh-so cathartic, but no it clearly is not since this thing is semi-public (i.e. can be found if thoroughly searched for, which nobody would do because like me, this blog disappeared before it appeared. To put it in simpler terms, nobody knows.)
A suppressed confession is the closest I could get to an actual confession. I believe I've presented the basic facts about what I failed to explain. I do this all the time. Heck, I do ask myself why I could get so temperamental in this blog. The answer's not a rainbow-wrapped baby thing. I'm always obscure and sad and happy and spiteful and grateful because if I don't do that, I will have nothing. And if I have nothing, I am nothing. Per nusquam, ego sum nusquam.
(That was copy-pasted from an online translator. I'm not aware of any available Latin courses around here but it looks pretty the way it is so I won't dare correct myself, if I made any inaccuracies.)
I got far off-track already. What I'm saying is I love this blog and I won't stop making what the public might consider drivel because it makes me believe I have this other world where my life is more than minor, like what Pudge wanted to attain as he chased the Great Perhaps. I'm not being dramatic with the comparison of my life and some skinny fictional guy's life, by the way. I'm just trying to make a blog post.
It's hard to tell what I mean by this but I want to be a mirage.
I couldn't get into the specifics of what I'm referring to. I don't want to be assailed for admitting what I may or may not be going through, or what I may or may not want to get into. I could consider this a private journal and extensively type on every flipping thing about it because that's oh-so cathartic, but no it clearly is not since this thing is semi-public (i.e. can be found if thoroughly searched for, which nobody would do because like me, this blog disappeared before it appeared. To put it in simpler terms, nobody knows.)
A suppressed confession is the closest I could get to an actual confession. I believe I've presented the basic facts about what I failed to explain. I do this all the time. Heck, I do ask myself why I could get so temperamental in this blog. The answer's not a rainbow-wrapped baby thing. I'm always obscure and sad and happy and spiteful and grateful because if I don't do that, I will have nothing. And if I have nothing, I am nothing. Per nusquam, ego sum nusquam.
(That was copy-pasted from an online translator. I'm not aware of any available Latin courses around here but it looks pretty the way it is so I won't dare correct myself, if I made any inaccuracies.)
I got far off-track already. What I'm saying is I love this blog and I won't stop making what the public might consider drivel because it makes me believe I have this other world where my life is more than minor, like what Pudge wanted to attain as he chased the Great Perhaps. I'm not being dramatic with the comparison of my life and some skinny fictional guy's life, by the way. I'm just trying to make a blog post.
