those days

life is like a bed of roses, really. there are the roses, and there are the thorns. It's not really important, especially since it's just a metaphor, but I hope mine are white roses.

It's hard. I know, truly, I do. It can be so tiring sometimes. all you want is to lie down and go to sleep. and you keep getting cuts.


it's ok, you're nice

nice people, eston, tend to be taken advantage of; they get hurt.


I guess I have forgotten many lessons. I have gone back to being five years old. I still believe that it will be alright in the end. maybe I'm naive and unaware again, but it's nice to believe in some greater good. It sets you right as rain.

this entry is so disjointed. I feel like deleting it.