Overthinking everything

"The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance."

It's funny, sometimes, that feeling on the edge of consciousness, when your mind is open and you're reflecting on things. You know you're unworthy. Unworthy of love, unworthy of attention, unworthy of the thing which you attempt to fool yourself with by calling it freedom. You are no more than a speck if dust in the wind in the grand scheme of things.
People call me an optimist. I'm not. I just choose. I just choose to see the fragments of light and color. Everything is faceted and everything has its reflections. Things change. I've changed, I guess. I'm still scared. I don't think I'll ever be not-scared.

Maybe I'm fooling myself by feeling I have a choice, but honestly, I've nearly lost myself enough times by now to know there's at least a tipping point. Everything has a tipping point.

I'm not alone now... That helps. When you're alone, your mind has nowhere to go but out, spreading and spreading, seeing the worst and the best. Sure, He's still there, there are still murmurs and shadows and things and people-who-think-they-aren't-lost, but somehow, even if numbers aren't safe in some ways, it's better than that racing, rambling, lost, scattered feeling. I'm not alone, I am wanted, I am loved, quit your humming and go away. I want spring to come now, please. You are not Mine, and I am not Yours.

It's something to focus on other than the light and flickers of color and sensation. People who sense things without synesthesia are actually a grounding influence on me sometimes. I mean, it's interesting for art, but it would be so easy to drift away sometimes in a haze of light.

Sorry... Sorry, I'm fine, I just needed to ramble a bit. Yay, monologuing. I think a lot of people know that feeling, these days. Anyway, I'm okay, Tia's fine... And Kailin's being Kailin.

Emails, emails, emails. I've been getting some odd ones recently. Temporary email accounts? Really? Well, for one of the people, the one who won't tell me who he is. I've got some suspicions, though. The others are from our dear, dear Shep. Honestly, I don't think I've ever met a more condescending jerk. And yes, I do still blame him for the stuff with Marie and Blake. Not as much as I blame myself, of course. But I mean... I've had time to think about things. What I could've done differently.

I know there's things about the Sinclairs that I'd been unaware of while living in Alabama. I mean, considering some of the junk that's happened surrounding that family. Nicking Marie's journal has shown me that much. There aren't too many things notable enough to be posted, but there are definite hints of things not having been completely on the level. I might start working on transcribing parts of it again, though, when I'm not busy with painting, driving, or working. There's a few interesting bits, though the vast majority of it is just normal, teenagery stuff. It's just too bad that there's nobody else from them that I could ask, I suppose.

Not now, though. Now I need to Focus on something else. Something less... something.