just enough pathos

I remember scribbling in class, sleepily, furiously. Stringing words together, discarding them, turning them into doodles. Now it's morning, everyone's fast asleep, mouths slightly open, mouths tightly closed. I can only sink a little further inside this protective cling wrap of music. Curious, like a perfectly broken egg shell, but opaque inside. If I could put my brain up in sunlight, or on paper, I would, for close examination, for some sort of comprehension.
I sometimes wonder about human behaviour and nature, and it completely destroys me.

New songs will be sung I suppose.
Self has to be extricated and re-defined. Determination has to be achieved. Memories have to be erased.
Wish I could have some of that special comforting baked chicken and recreate new visions.

Wish I could splurge futilely, wear a red beret in the rain, write eccentric, run away somewhere, alone.

I don't deserve goodness, maybe I am utterly incapable of understanding these things, they are intangible.

I am 23. I could choose bland, I can have bland. Or I could mix up everything, create more brain clutter, behave like a child, do crazy impulsive things like I do and end up unhappy. Well, happiness is illusory anyway, like everything else. I feel euphoric one moment and furious the next. And unfortunately, I cannot even blame the hormones.

Say what, shabby yet flamboyant, reciting Aiken, travelling, creating useless and pretty lampshades?