Asking for beautiful

Maybe this kind of vulnerable post should better be left to my spontaneous journal, but I don’t feel like writing by hand. Yet again laziness fuels me to take an alternative route. Oh well.

I can’t write, and yet I’m making myself. It’s just been kind of a one eighty from earlier. Lucy hasn’t been back in all that time. I took a quick nap and gave myself a weird headache, I daydreamed. I read some stories online because my daydreams just aren’t good enough lately. Or maybe they’re good enough, they’re just NOT enough. I don’t know, but I feel a little sick. I just sat there wishing for something more than what I have.

A better body, a more charming personality? A boyfriend? They all crossed my mind. But I don’t know if that really is what I want. It’s absolutely completely stupid because I know who I am, for the most part, and I like her. She’s fine, she’s okay. Occasionally creative and brilliant and lovely.

And I know– I know I’m going to have to wait until probably after college before any of that romance business gets to me. The kind that’s closer to being real. I could probably sleep with a few people between now and then, but the likelihood of it meaning anything is highly unlikely. I’ve had enough of that shit. I don’t want just the physical. It’s a little unpleasant, actually, and that’s probably why I feel ill.

I want the simple, and the romantic. The beautiful and the elegant and the lovely, without the filthied meaninglessness the world today tends to put on it. I know it can all be ugly. I’ve experienced that firsthand.

I’ve decided that I don’t want any of it if I cannot have the beautiful.

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