Sometimes I feel so young.

Sometimes? Who am I kidding? I feel like young all of the time, no matter how hard I try not to.

At least it means I have a lot of time to do what I--ultimately--am hear for to do.

Making lists, although useful at times, doesn't seem to have a point. You can try your whole life, writing down every little thing, taking notes, ordering.ordering.ordering. But you can never make sense out of all of the tiny, infimestial occurrences that effect us every single second. There are some things that just can't be forced into an adorably neat stack. And more often the things that are wild and out of control, and completely terrifying are the best things in your life.

I find myself trying to contain them anyway, and even if the lists aren't written down in any physical sense, my brain is composed of many, many lists, ranging from groceries I need to buy, to what homework I have that night, to the places I want to go, to the smells that make my toes curl with pleasure. And inevitably those lists over lap and get jumbled around in that empty crevice I call a mind, and everything just sloshes around to the rhythm of my footsteps.

Some things you can't put into words. I consider myself a deep person, but the thoughts I want to convey that prove this point just won't come. This is one of the reasons I admire philosophers, poets, and songwriters so much. It's not really the emotions they feel, or the concepts that they grasp at and understand, because I can do that too. But it's more that when it really matters, all of those people found a way to express what they meant. I would do almost anything to be able to do that.

I'm trying to decide whether or not I should continue my short novella thing, that still remains nameless. I would, except that I don't technically have a copyrite. Which is probably a huge mistake to admit so publicly. I most definitely have too much faith in people, that if they stumble across my work, they won't steal it. And I'm certain that my friends won't, but I know there are other people out there who would. Even fellow writers, in a fit of desperation due to writers block, might under the right circumstances. And that pains me the most, because I would hope that any other writer would honor the sacred, unspoken bond that keeps them from plagiarizing.

With all of this to consider, I haven't decided if I'm bringing Charli and Ivan back. I will, however, continue their story. Just maybe not here. :(

It's hard to keep your balance. There are so many things that I love to do that I always end up neglecting one when I get caught up in the other. I hate it when that happens, because it seems unfair in a kind of odd way. (It's odd because my hobbies are technically inanimate objects. I would argue that point--they seem alive enough to me!--but I don't want to come off as crazy.)

Uhg. I just can't do this right now. My mind is bursting with things to say, and the trickle of them being released is unbearably slow. I'm not going anywhere.

Thanks for reading.