Broken sleep in the afternoon caused this
I started writing from the me and inadvertantly deleted it all, in a freak slight of keyboard action. Was it meant to be/ i think it was/ I write when I’m uptight, time passes, i feel better and i regret writing it/ I like to write but i like to write then run away from it and only look back when the time and the feeling is long gone. only then can it be pleasurable. i can never be too sure of what i’m saying, i am often extreme and sweeping if i don’t check myself. I’m bored of my microscopic analytical delving now. Why do blokes and women go for the same ones all the time/ I’m so bored of it. I fancy so and so. Oh what a suprise! I have asked myself, is it pure jealousy, and no i don’t think it is. I guess history repeating itself again and again with the same types is doing my head in and I’m waiting for the record to change and for someone I desire to want me in the way i want them to. I’m beginning to believe I have a mixed up soul that thinks it wants something then rejects it as soon as it arrives. But, no, i can’t remember a single time it has happened so I guess i haven’t had the break.
