Word Thief.

Writing does not belong on tumblr for me. It belongs on Blogger. Pictures belong on tumblr. Writing, misanthropy, and general cheer the fuck up you fuck belongs on here. Inspiration belongs on tumblr. Life belongs on Blogger.

Firstly, I know barely (if) anyone reads this blog. And quite frankly, I’m happy with that. I dislike it intensely when people write blogs about the innermost workings of their brain and what makes them tick and what rips their heart out, and advertises where this piece of writing can be found. Then you get every tom dick harry coming along and thinking a) you are one fucked up mofo, and b) they know everything. There is a bit of charm in mystery. I like mystery.

I used to have a friend who would get very angry at this whole mystery business. I only say he was a friend because since I’ve come to university, I’ve barely spoken nor seen him. I’m not surprised. We used to get on really well and I would be able to talk to him, but things just disappeared when the third party appeared. I believe life is such.

However, the element of mystery, it used to drive him insane. He never understood just why girls did it. Quite frankly, nor do I. But I do like the fact that I can walk around wherever it may be, even with my own flatmates or friends, and they have no clue what is really going on. I mean, there is all the normal, superficial rubbish, but the bits that really mean things. Thoughts, feelings, desires. Never let those be known.

It’s funny really, but I’ve only just started realising that I am a walking oxymoron. I come across as a person who’s life is pretty much out there, barely any secrets. But then, there are some things about me no one knows, that they think they do. Things I will never divulge. I like that. Because at the end of the day, no one knows me. It’s better that way, isn’t it?

You could always come back with, ah, but isn’t everyone like that? I think not. Some people are open books. They have a template. You can tap into that template. Some people are closed books. They are a room of smoke or fog or however you wish to see it. And some people are both.

Yell at me for being over simplistic, but I see people like I see working objects. I know they’re not, and they’re far more complicated and ridiculous and impulsive and, to be honest, pathetic, but it’s easier to think of them as a clockwork droid, where specific things literally make them tick, and some things stop them.

Moral of the story. I hate people.

Go figure.