I’m not so good at passivity. Sitting still and playing at sublime, it feels like fakery, and deceit. Though I have had my chapters of deceiving my world (mostly myself), this is not where I feel myself. Holding back emotions, no matter what their nature, is like icy hands around my throat, grasping, clasping, and choking the life out of me.

This world seems so jaded so much of the time. Happiness is looked at as ridiculousness. It is so much more accepted to sit back and mask any real joy with expected words of doom, and oh so witty sarcasm. And yes, I do play relay with sarcastic repetoire, but there is a time in place for genuine, in the moment, emotion.

I look around and wonder how the world got so burnt out. We seem to be all made of scars, and not stars; all full of decay, and not dreams. My baggage, it casts shadows behind me, and sometimes the weight of it drags me down. But, it is not who I am. These patched up suitcases of disappointment, loss and hurt, I do not forget (how could I ever forget), but I still squint my eyes and look past in order to see the sun.

I want to feel the fire if I am going to be burned like all of you. I want the passion and all the possibility, even if it turns me to ash someday.

Malibu (live) :: Hole