I'm trying to stay awake during the daytime and engage my brain. I'm trying not to get carried away by meaningless distraction. Thinking clearly is more difficult than it sounds because it requires you to curate an environment as well as the internal thoughts. I have spent the last while seperated from the world. Sort of drifting off in orbit. I wish you knew the me outside of school. I inhabitated a seperate space from other people. Sometimes I can find interfacing with others difficult because I don't know what to talk about in which I have in common. Why am I thinking about my brain so much. I guess it was because there was a period of time where I didn't take very good care of it. Now that is past, I can only rebuilt. However I have been at peace in a sense. I think the feeling of solitude is quite adapt. I wonder what your world is like. How different is it from mine? Are you anything like my imagination of you. Some of the fictional worlds that exist within be are outlandish places. I find myself asking questions to myself of why I am speaking. I remember the conversations we had. They were very short. Often only a few words long. I didn't have much to say. I had much to say. In some ways there where many conversations. In someways very few. I've wondered, did you ever miss me. I guess I just vanished from your life, leaving no trace of my being, but my friends and their quirks they picked up from me. I imagine you picking up the pieces trying to reconstruct me. But you could never see what the whole looked like now that it was gone. You couldn't understand my thinking. I must have seemed alein to you. You were other worldly. I told myself you were too bright for me, so I always looked away. Maybe I now think about the paths not traveled. What would they have been like. If we could go back how might things have been different. But then there was all the other stuff. The part of life I don't want to revisit. Maybe I write messages in a hope that they will get read. Then I try to bury with other words. Maybe obscuring myself makes the feel more genuine when I'm honest because telling the mes apart becomes more difficult the more I put out. And maybe I've always been running away from what needs to get done. Imagination is so bizarre. I tell myself things, but really I'm glad I don't regularly interface with others. They all seem like lost, confused souls. They don't listen to me. Maybe they are so used to the confused messages of the world they don't hear my voice when I try to befriend them. And then when I don't have anyone to speak to. Well I guess that's why I'm writing here. To find someone to speak to. I wonder. I can't seem to find a satisfying conclusion. Maybe that's just the way of things, to be seemingly ongoing. I wonder if I'll ever see you again. And then what will I say. Nothing? Surely I'll have something to say. If worst comes to worst, I can always talk about the weather. Or maybe the sky or something. The weather is actually more interesting than it would seem, because it underlies a whole subjective experience of things. Maybe I could talk about the storms I've seen. Or I could talk about winter from childhood. Or the windy days I was walking around for. I could use words like overcast or brisk.