I closed my eyes for a second, listening to the music flowing from the speakers and thinking about the subtext in the words that I was writing. Everything always has more than one meaning, because life is all about interpretation; some maniacal, some enriching, some just plain conspicuous. The way I see things may not be the way whoever may read this writing is seeing them. But who cares? It’s therapeutic nonetheless. Writing has always been my way of seeing emotion in a tangible form. You see, I pretend to be filled with proverbial self-awareness, but in all actuality, there is just too much continuously-present duality in my personality to ever be fully self-aware. I am in a constant battle with myself; a battle of wit and words. I know what I want to say and what I need to do, but for some unknown reason, things just don’t usually turn out the way I envision them to. Maybe it’s a stage.
I think we might know a lot about a lot of things, but never everything about anything. I have figured out, however, amidst my umpteen hours of hopelessly imperfect soul-searching, that I suffer from the 'don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone, so instead you kill it with cynicism and irrelevance' disease. And I don’t think I suffer alone, which is an ever-growing problem for people in this life; everyone bleeds the same way.