a blue guitar, a set of stars, or those exactly who they are
There are things you think of only when reading a really good fic (or, book, i suppose) and when you've been horribly sleep-deprived. Every song played on shuffle seems perfect. All of your experiences seem worth sharing with the world, and you want to stuff them all in one big book and then leave lying around for someone precious to accidentally read.

Sometimes I just need to tell stories about the small feelings, shall shades of feelings and complexities of life, like - that is exactly what I want to tell, exactly what I've always been telling: there's no easy way. There's no definite answer. There's no objective truth, there's just you and what you do and what happens.

But I suck at making up characters, or at least, doing so from scratch, as I am perfectly capable of slowly developing a backstory for a character we barely know. Well.

And also - sometimes you get such tight, intense feeling of yourself: this is me. this is me, tired and uncomfortable and travelling, all by myself, always, being happy of songs, wanting to share them, like small shells and cobblestones found on the shore, where everyone could see them and pick them up, but they didn't, and now i get to cherish them; this is me, waxing poetic about fanfiction, tipping a cute girl and not being able to say how this coffee obviously is saving me right now, or anything else remotely flirty, and me, hurting and okay with it, and okay being alone, because i get to feel. i get to feel. i get to have words. i get to put favorite songs on repeat, isn't this all there is?

And isn't that feeling enough to create whole worlds?

@темы: на полях, inside, утро