Humans are so strange. I'm a hypocrite for this. But my point today is that we tend to immediately dislike people for being themselves. You have to ease into being sincere. Sincerely, some people can be hilarious, peculiar, and emotional. It's not anything I'd be opposed to with time, but first impressions are seemingly false. I'd immediately associate with the calm and collected kid over the excitable dork... but in time I'd want the excitable dork to hang around. It makes more sense in my head.


So I guess it's not about who you are that counts, it's when you decide to reveal that to others. First impressions are formatted to society, structured, and FALSE. Or are they?

I'm a judgmental person apparently. So thi is probably just my opinion.

Oh Well.

Sincerely,
Carrie Anne.

"...But it's beautiful."

Sometimes I wonder the inevitable wonders. Why am I here? Who am I? How much control do I have? And then I remember that it will soon be over. As long as it has a definite end, in relativity to the time I will be absent from my decaying corpse, I have a short life. But how am I alive? How am I alive, rather, in relativity to others? Does the woman with sharp green eyes and unkempt dark hair have a brighter perception than I? Am I perceiving things wrong? Am I at fault? Are these problems obtained by shameful means, are they lessons I’ve ignored? I’m a fool then. I’m a fool to have these skewed images and perceived senses. It’s not there. And if it isn’t there, where am I? I’m not here. I can’t be here if all I’m doing is taking up space while my mind is off corrupting itself with temptations of its own. It’s so easy to let the sleep take over, even while I’m awake. But it isn’t sleep at all, for I wake up rested. But I’m not awake at all, for I sleepwalk and wipe at my flesh. I was free when I was empty of experience, full of life. I was programmed to do this. To stop feeling the real effect of the swaying dandelions, and wishing for old friends. It’s like a motion picture now. I know what I should say, but I don’t experience the thoughts for myself. There it is again. The tapping, the creeping of the particles, cloaked in clear blankets, dragging their boneless bodies across my uncloaked flesh. And it’s gone. I’ve resisted the urge to let go. To sit back and listen to my mind is to watch a film that projects something real. It’s just as real as the things I experience, anyway. And this is my trapped emotion. This is the way I was born not to be. The way it ought to be. And I wouldn’t rather be anyone else. To lack this confusion is to stop the room from spinning, where every corner holds a new image. Where every rotation reveals a melody, and every silent moment unveils a scrambled mass of ingenuity. Its not accessible, but it's beautiful.

SIMON'S ROCK.