A Face To Call Home
I can't focus.
I'm feeling this force of defeat that's just... imminently charging towards me. I'm such a stupid sponge to my environment and I just can't seem to make where I am "work." And that frustrates me endlessly. My OCD brain desires an order that simply cannot exist simultaneously with the reality of my life at present.
One of the songs cycling in my brain is John Mayer's "A Face to Call Home:"
"I am an architect
Of days that haven't happened yet
I can't believe a month is all it's been
You know my paper heart
The one I filled with pencil marks
I think I might have gone and inked you in."
I have a paper heart, and I have this horrible tendency to ink some people in. I love quickly, deeply, and genuinely. I have an imagination. My life is some sort of chaotic example of a dreamer with anxiety and vacancies that seem to be unfillable.
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