When I’m writing people tend to listen, when I’m talking I’m disregarded and it’s so odd. When I’m speaking and trying to convey my position in a tone I find trustworthy and real, is taken as nothing and disregarded as an angry feminist. That in truth should mean more than words, I get angry and frustrated. I no longer know how to contain this and that makes me an angry feminist, makes me despise others and creates a divid. It’s unfair to all. All who live.
Whimsical, indigo, vertical, lustful, simplistic, linen, seaside, nostalgia, weather worn.
It’s fine to be influenced by others, but to loose your self identity is when you know it’s not healthy. That’s a powerful feeling, and it’s a vortex of grasping at painful straws.
I think the world is full of people who are selfish and those who can’t find they’re own way. Those are the ones with heavy hearts who adapt to they’re surroundings so deeply they believe they are the selfish ones.