Thoughts and Things

I've been thinking too much and reading too many of my old poems. My old words were kind of pretty, actually. But I spent tonight looking at old poems and old pictures and thinking about the past too much, Which you'd think would be a recipe for disaster. But I've spent most of this time thinking that it's odd how even when I was genuinely happy, you could see sadness in the set of my shoulders, in my eyes, and that is scary. You could see sadness on me like my depression was a full time job with overtime. There's a sadness in those old pictures I'm looking at and I am fascinated and scared by it. But my poems, the stuff inside my head that seeped out onto paper isn't corrosive or scary like the sadness in me in the pictures. Last year I looked and seemed so sad and lost, but I read my poems and they didn't portray the struggle or pain of last year. They were fascinatingly pretty and well versed and not confusing and stumbling and rambling like my actual thoughts. So even though you'd think I would find everything in the world to be anxious over, I've chosen fascination and morbid curiosity in my own mind a year ago.