i lay on my bed, staring at the blank ceiling. the room has absorbed some cold from the rain. my mind couldn't stop moving, talking, processing, analyzing. i'm calm but it feels like a whirlwind up top. i cannot justify why is it i felt the way i did. all i knew was that, in Bon Iver's words, i was not magnificent.


i don't know how to stop feeling as if the world is continually treating me unjustly.
i complain too much, constantly pointing fingers.
when the real truth is let out, it all boils down to the painful hard fact that i don't know how to be content.


i don't know how to stop wanting things to go my way.
people used to say i was understanding; am i, really?
because as far as i know, i think i fail very well in that area.


i don't know how to rationalize.
i am but a bundle of explosive emotional tanks.
i was not magnificent.