“And even if these scenes of our youth were given back to us we would hardly know what to do. The tender, secret influence that passed from them into us could not rise again. We might be amongst them and move in them; we might remember and love them and be stirred by the sight of them. But it would be like gazing at the photograph of a dead comrade; those are his features, it is his face, and the days we spent together take on a mournful life in the memory, but the man himself it is not.” -All Quite on the Western Front
I was looking through one of my notebooks, and I found it. I like it. It makes sense for me right now, and so little makes sense for me right now, so that's miraculous.
What am I doing this all for? Who the hell am I? What do I want? What do I like to do? Why am I here? What is this doing for me? Why can't it all just go back to the way it used to be?
I hate that I think that. I hate that I wish things could go back to the way they used to be. It's taking the easy way out--blaming my problems on the fact that we're growing up. I'm not taking any responsibility at all for anything that's going on in my life. And I don't care.
Amy & I got coffee after school yesterday and we were talking about life in general, catching up. It was nice, but it brought a lot of things to the surface that I'm not ready to face.
I have no more limits. I really don't. I used to have some boundries for myself, but now I just don't care enough to put the effort in to make sure that I still have one ounce of self-control left. I don't have the physical or mental strength to make sure everything goes the way I've always planned.
It would just be nice if all of this would stop.