I'm in a kick lately where I'm trying real hard to think of something meaningful to do, but so far all I've come up with is feeding my goldfish.
Artistic, creative - a lack of vocational skills. Tiny hands that can't play classical guitar, but try anyway. Lips that like to be painted black when I feel good, but otherwise live for the touch of another upon them. Silent when I'm sorrowed, but with a laugh that rings like halos. Ink stained fingers that never seem to stop scribbling with something, and boxes full of papers. Memories kept alive, and troubles left forgotten. Easily frustrated, easily entertained. Loves to love, and loves to be loved. Hates to hate, and hates to be hated. Thunderstruck, and sometimes stifled. Confused beyond belief, but sure that I can understand. Willing, able. Tired, worn. Alive, kicking.
I wore a pink wig once, and felt like the world couldn't stop me.
How can it be that I was a person and then I lost me, and then I liked the me that I became, and then I became a me that I didn't like, and now I'm trying to get back to the roots of the me that I originally was - all this while trying to to break anything, including my mind.