Thoughts.

I'm sitting here in the lab of Friedrick, looking at the fresh scars on my arm. I'm sad because my posts lately have been like entries from a diary more than sharing work. I suppose that is what a blog is meant for, and I suppose I can use it this way. But it makes me feel uneasy, like too many things do these days.

Last night I was social (surprising, yes?). I actually talked to someone in my dorm besides my good friend from high school. I talked to a group of people actually. And more surprising? I felt okay. Sure, I wasn't enthralled by the conversation, but I was content being around these other people. I was content with not being alone. I find that I wish I could talk to new people more often. I wish I could talk to them without bringing up my weird qualities and getting strange looks. I wish that I could be what they think I am upon first sight. They think I'm ditsy, they think I love parties, they think I've never faced any real hurt. They think I only have one dimension.

But then they see... As casual conversation continues, I talk of my bloodlust, my angst, and my hatred for all music auto-tuned. I become more and more complicated to them, and I'm unsure of the response. I can't quite tell if this is a good thing or a bad thing to them, all I get by their facial expressions is that they weren't expecting it.

This is a dumb post. At least, I believe it is. But recently someone commented on here that made me believe more in myself. I now think, nothing I post is pointless. If I feel the need to write it, it must be necessary.

As for the scars on my arm, that's my weakness. Those are my doubts and fears that maybe my goals aren't possible. They scorch my skin. They attack my thoughts. But, alas, they are always there. Even as the scar fades, the feeling of torn flesh has scathed my memory, reminding me that I am no better than anyone else.

PS: I really wish my lap top was working.
And that I could write this book faster, but as I keep re-writing it, I get farther and farther from finishing.