it's one thing to have science/math classes. it's another to have the humanities. i'm starting to think i want at least one of those number crunching ones because when you don't get to writing the things you're supposed to write when you should, it piles up. then you get to write like forty pages of crap in one night. IT'S ALL BULLSHIT anyway. haha, i'm so optimistic.

there's something about chris martin's voice that makes me feel. something.

i want to be able to write. all that it is i feel. exactly the way i'm feeling it, with a pen and paper, in the way it's supposed to come out. un-edited, pure, raw. just what it is then and there.

for some reason, lately, i've been feeling a bit estranged from it all. like i'm observing things from a distance. everything's spinning in front of me, parading with smiles and bliss, five steps into a tango. and i'm just on the outside. i'm standing. alone. on the side of the ball room just three feet away from the dangling chandelier fastened on the high ceiling - shy of the spotlight. and it's all in front of me. waltzing to the chords of chopin's fantasie impromptu. so i stand. just off to the distance.

and it continues. without me. because in order to dance, you must want to. someone has to take your hand, lead you to the dance floor, and escape into that moment with you because he/she wants you there.

but i realize that what i just wrote (i decided upon not deleting it) is just another one of my random rants about essentially nothing. in it's essence, it's crap. regardless of whether or not it truly pains me, bugs me, tears at me to change. the dance goes on anyway.

and chopin's fantasie impromptu gives way to liszt's consolation #3.