I have a feeling that I'm never going to post certain things I write here, and that immediately brings me to some conclusions about myself. First, I didn't like the impression it gave of me(too self-conscious and guarded), and secondly, I didn't want to share so much.

I'm one of those girls that can't stand being just like everybody else, yet hates to feel that she's different. I'm one of those girls that grew up hoping that everything would work itself out and then grew to realize that life just isn't that perfect. It's perfect being imperfect, I think.

I thought I was in love with this boy. Sometime recently I've discovered that maybe I wasn't in love with him. I loved him without a doubt, but I don't think I was really in love. I'm trying my best to speak candidly with others, particularly this one person, but I find it hard at times. Sometimes I think I can't be so open is because of the boy I thought I loved. He didn't really listen. He listened, but he didn't really listen. He listened to what he felt necessary and went about his day. I realize that now. I realize now how nice it is to have someone that wants to hear the good and the bad. Someone that doesn't gloss over my feelings of being insecure, my bouts of sadness. Someone that doesn't just say, "Well, that sucks, but it will get better." I hated that. Because I don't always think it will get better. I try to think that, but it doesn't always happen.

I finally decided to sit and actually try to write all of this out, even writing it is quite difficult. And I'm writing mainly because I think my friends are getting sick of me by now. And I REALLY don't want to push them away with my over-exaggerated emotional roller coasters.

Do you ever feel like you want to escape? Like, just wrap yourself up in words and get lost in some other world for a while. Forget about your own life and just become absorbed in another, more perfect one. Because I do.

Maybe that's why I read so much. I'm currently reading 3 books. I will read a chapter of one and then read another a couple hours later. I try to pace myself with my books because I can't leave the house right now. People are horrible at buying books for me, even when I give them specific books to buy. If that one isn't there, they will find one by the same author, which of course has always been something I've read.

The more I read, the more I want to do. I read all these amazing books and I love how usually everything just ends up perfect. Sometimes I feel I have deep connections with certain characters and I hate it when the book ends. There are very few books that I will re-read. I can really only think of 4 off the top of my head that I absolutely love. Maybe I'm too picky or maybe books aren't written very well.

And I'm only just realizing how much I rely on ignoring my problems. Because suddenly they're there and I can't handle it, and my real life has taken a back seat to the fictional life I'm in. It's stupid really, how much my happiness relies on writing and reading fiction. I'm always searching for better words to explain how I feel, and my only ambition in life is to write something that changes somebody. I'm constantly trying to extend my vocabulary, and writing is the only thing that I can imagine making me happy. I suppose you could say that my best friends are words. They make me happy, they make me sad, they give me shivers. They're always there and I can manipulate them however I like. They know and tell exactly how I feel at any given moment. If I feel like being cliched and falling apart - they give me a perfect outlet for the anger. I'm such a girl sometimes, I have too much emotion.

I just need someone to listen, I suppose. Even if it's just some strangers on that read my journal - because I expect you'd understand better than these 'friends' of mine. I love them, but they don't understand me. I can tell. I can't help it. I obsess. I obsess and I escape.

That's how I am.