Boredom

Words rarely come out the way you would have liked for them to. You sit down with intentions of writing a romantic novel, but come out with a murder mystery. You put your pen to the notebook with hopes of being philosophical, but you end up being ignorant. Your inspiration comes not from within, but from without. You make a point to make no sense, but eventually, everything you write makes perfect sense, if not to you, then to someone else; someone who sees through your façade. Sometimes it’s magical, but other times, it makes you feel like shit, because a perfect stranger has you figured out, and you don’t even know yourself.
We don’t always get what we want. Other times, we get exactly what we want after chasing it for close to a year, then suddenly, you end up in a mental hospital, and everything’s gone, yet you still have it. It’s funny how things work out like that. You often hear that you make your future, but you don’t. Fate throws you into insane whirlwinds of confusion and you feel like this plane is definitely crashing. No matter how hard you wished when you blew out your candles, year after year, you never got that pony did you? And I laugh, because you never will, yet, you’re still wishing even though you’re 38, and have 3 kids who do the exact same thing. You’re the same as you were when you were six years old.
I write these words to patronize you, yes. How does it feel? How does it feel to know that if I have to die, then you will have to die? How does it feel to be a long distance drunk? How does it feel to have your heart cook your brain? Where do you move when what you’re moving from is yourself? Eventually you will learn. Eventually, I will learn. I do not need you to tell me that I’m not a cat.