Depending on the weather or what I wear that day, I feel sort of different like there’s new skin where the old skin was, and I don’t care about the same things, and sometimes I’m crying, and sometimes I’m laughing. Mostly I feel despondent. Or maybe I just feel despondent right now, and just can’t remember ever feeling different. I can’t remember ever feeling different.
I’ve been listening to Conor Oberst’s older music and I listen to the stuff he wrote when he was not much older than me and it makes me feel so many different things. It makes me sad, because of his sad words, and it makes me feel happy and calm and justified because someone great feels the same way that I do, and it makes me feel so jealous and inadequate, because I can’t articulate the way that I feel, and even if I could get it out somehow, it would never be beautiful or even make sense at all. And since I can’t be Conor Oberst, or anyone with some originality or merit, I don’t know what else to do with myself but to wither here in the seasons that keep going, or to simply go to sleep…
Knowing all the things I’ll never be is the only certainty I have. The rest is uncertain, what I will be and it’s so hard to bear sometimes and I just want to be special sometimes.
But I guess that’s probably my problem, everything that I do is for self-reflection. I should stop thinking about myself so much. Even the person that I love thinks so and that’s where I should be selfless. He always has to do it right and sometimes I wonder why because I don’t think he could do it wrong even if he tried. I guess that must be what love is. He can take it with him from now on, no matter where he goes.