it's times like these that i wish all my thinks fit into a little blue suitcase. is cleaning your room always supposed to be an accidental act of introspection? I ended up finding all sorts of things... including an old sketchbook from 10th grade. Everything in it just echoed all these fatal flaws I'm still dealing with.. and maybe even always will. i'm not sure what i'm doing, once again. Somehow i always feel like i'm not doing enough and that maybe if i did a little more i'd be happy. but the moment i try, i forget why i even do it. what's the satisfaction of trying when it seems i always make excuses. There's definitely a catch 22 or paradox of some sort in there. i don't think i'm happy and again i think i'm going down a tangent I don't want. maybe that's just the sandwich i ate a little while ago. i want to get rid of everything i own. i hate it all, save for enough things to fit in a backpack.

maybe it's the ready-to-run aspect of the suitcase that appeals to me.