when I loose myself I think of you

I'm listening to Tokio Hotel. he has rad hair.

I'm pissed off now because I have to restart this whole fucking thing. Fuck.

Now, in English, he asked us to put whatever we had in our backpacks/pockets/whatever on the desk. Except random crap like papers. He then told us to put some things that a lot of people had away. Cell phones first. iPods next. Pencils. That was all it took to empty my desk. What was left was supposedly the unique things that we had that we carried with us and meant something. I had nothing. Nothing special, nothing unique. If I die, I leave nothing behind. Just a body, backpack, Zune, other junk. Nothing. Memories are what I treasure, and I don't have many. People are who I treasure. But I'm not emotionally attached to any object. Nothing has a story. The Zune has a story of my mom not trusting someone[she seems to not like to trust certain things a lot, but that is not something I'd like to get into in a public blog]. I want something of mine to be a part of me, of who I am. I fit into the crowd, it's where I'm most comfortable, and the place that sickens me the most. I don't want to stand out and be ridiculed, but I don't want to be a faceless object floating through life. Which is what I am. A masked man in a faceless crowd. and it's not even a cool mask. I don't know what it would take to get me attached to an object though.

. i miss you so much.

. i'm sorry. For everything. For every time I annoy you, for every time I make you mad, for every time I disappoint you, for every time I hurt you, for every time I don't say sorry, for every time I lie, for every time that I don't listen, for every time I wouldn't/won't let go, for every time I creep you out, for every time that I don't care, for every time I say the wrong thing, for every time I make you sad, for every time that I seem so distant, for every time I don't tell you what's wrong, for every second that I hate you, for every minute that want you dead, for every hour that want you to leave, for every day that I regret, for every year that I waste, for every time that I don't say, that I love you. That goes for everyone.

I'm sorry. I felt like doing that.


The God of the New World by *behindinfinity on deviantART
See Elizabeth? I have wings.