Baby Steps

I think I secretly desire to be infinite, it's The Perks of Being a Wallflower in me,

I've tried to writing something for days now, but nothing materializes. I produce the best writing when i'm at a loss, or caught in confusion. But lately neither has been the case. It's slightly sad, and slightly pathetic, that my best writing comes from despair. But it makes some sense. I mean, when something is wrong I try to dig in my head and connect the wire that came undone. Writing and music are the shovels, so it would make sense my deepest writing is the product of self recuperation, right? Maybe it's all in my sub conscious, or maybe I just haven't got the chance to write when i'm honestly content. Lately i'm comfortable with how my life is going. I'm just living in the now and rolling with the texts. There's no need to think, because there's nothing to think about. Thinking ruins me, more times than it should, so i'm satisfied with it's welcomed absence. I believe that if I put too much thought into my current, i'll shadder it. I'm terrified of that as it is, so i'm going to do everything I can to make sure i'm not the one with the cuts on his hands.

I'm obviously growing, because i'm still content, and this writing wasn't too bad.